••SB- ,/% •«$ / %, *w : * *% l ft 
A lip /K 1 WjL^}&$ </*' 



v*v 



vv 

<#•%- 









^ V 



**o« 











tfc v* .*&ft. %/ .*S&\ w :#fe 







/% •• 



•V"* A^ <io "•** 

hi? *mb;. ^ 



6 V ^ 









5V. C' 



1 ^ * V * 



TEXT-BOOKS BY G. H. BELL 



BELL'S LANGUAGE SERIES. 

Book One. — Primary Language Lessons 
from Life, Nature, and Revelation. 
272 pp. Cloth, 65c. 

Book Two. — Elementary Grammar. 224 
pp. Cloth, 65c. 

Book Three. — Complete Grammar. 281 
pp. Cloth, 80c. 

Book FOUR. — Rhetoric and Higher Eng- 
lish. 375 PP- .Cloth, $1.25. 

Book Five. — Studies in English and Ameri- 
can Literature. 599 pp. Cloth, $1.75. 

BELL'S GUIDE TO CORRECT LANGUAGE. 

A practical hand-book for literary 
workers. In three parts : I. Practical 
Grammar. II. Punctuation. III. Use 
of Capitals. 112 pp. $1.00. 



REVIEW & HERALD PUB'G CO. 



BELL'S LANGUAGE SERIES 

• • ffiOOl? 5 • • 

r 

STUDIES IN 

ENGLISH and AMERICAN 
LITERATURE 



BY G. H. BELL 

Author of Natural Method in English, Guide to Correct Language, 
Familiar Talks on Language, Chart on Punc- 
tuation, From Nature's Book, etc. 



REVIEW AND HERALD PUBLISHING CO. 

BATTLE CREEK, MICH. 

CHICAGO, ILL. ATLANTA, GA. 



f 



Tfr*- 




Entered according to Act of Congress in the Year 1898, by 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 



2n. 



.y 




TWO COPIES. RECEIVED. 



REVIEW &. HERALD PUB'G CO. 
BATTLE CREEK, MIC 




<\% 



PREFACE. 



This book differs from most of its kind, both in plan and 
purpose. It comprises a history of literature, and also spe- 
cial studies by means of selections, with questions and re- 
marks. Part First is a historical outline, with only occasional 
short selections. Part Second is made up of selections, 
arranged by subjects, without special reference to chrono- 
logical order. 

The questions and remarks are placed at the end of each 
Part, instead of being put at the end of each chapter, or at 
the close of the section to which they refer. It is hoped that 
these questions will aid materially in analyzing the thought, 
and that they will prove a decided help both in learning and 
in teaching the lessons. 

In the historical portion, the effort has been to represent 
every period by the best it produced. For this purpose it 
has not been thought necessary to call attention to a great 
number of writers, but only to such as gave tone and char- 
acter to the literature of their time. 

In making selections for such study, regard has been had 
to their influence upon mind and character, as well as to 
their literary merits. Selections have not been made from 
the Bible — the best of all literature — for the reason that it 
is in everybody's possession, and can be drawn from at will. 
So, also, only short extracts have been taken from many 
other excellent and well-known works. But enough is given 
in this book to cultivate a taste for true literature, if the work 

[3] 



4 PREFACE. 

is faithfully done according to the plan indicated ; after 
that the field may be broadened by private study or by 
further selections. 

The importance of studying our best literature can 
scarcely be overestimated. Language, like other fine arts, 
is more effectually acquired through example than by tech- 
nical instruction alone. Models are as essential in compo- 
sition as they are in painting or in sculpture. There should 
be no conscious copying, nor any attempt at imitation ; but 
when approached earnestly and lovingly, there is an inspira- 
tion in the productions of genius : they rouse our latent ener- 
gies, and quicken our moral and intellectual perceptions. 

This volume is not so much a study of authors as of their 
writings. It is intended as a study of literature rather than 
of literary people, and is based upon the conviction that a 
constant association with noble thoughts and pure expression 
will improve both mind and speech if it can be done by any 
means at our command. G. H. Bell. 

Battle Creek, Mich., 
June 14, 1898. 



SUGGESTIONS TO TEACHERS. 



The author does not presume to prescribe methods that 
the teacher is bound to follow, but wishes to make a few 
friendly suggestions. 

The first thing to be considered is the primary object for 
which the study is to be pursued. It is pleasant to know 
who wrote this or that book, and to know the history and 
peculiarities of noted authors ; but all this does not neces- 
sarily ennoble one's character, discipline his mind to more 
vigorous thinking, or materially improve his language. It 
is not studying literature, but simply its history. 

The real study of literature is the becoming acquainted 
with such writings as are by their intrinsic worth valuable to 
all people in all times. Such is the Bible ; and such are all 
writings whose tendency is to call into healthy action the 
nobler attributes of our nature, thus contributing to the 
building up of a beautiful and symmetrical manhood. 

But to become fully acquainted with such writings is to 
drink in of their spirit, — to be stirred by the motives and 
emotions that prompted them. Here is where the help of 
the teacher is most needed. Reading aloud with the class is 
one of the best things a teacher can do. His enthusiasm, 
his appreciation, his sympathy with the thoughts and motives 
of the author, will be contagious. 

It is thought that the questions, remarks, and analyses 
appended to each Part of the book will promote a thorough 
study of the text, and teachers are strongly advised to use 
them, at least so far as they are adapted to the condition of 
the pupils. The exercises therein required are specimens of 

[5] 



b SUGGESTIONS TO TEACHERS. 

what should be carried out in other instances, so far as the 
interests of the class may demand, and the time permit. 

It is better to be thorough in a few things than to be 
superficial in many. It will be more profitable to deal faith- 
fully with the selections given in this book, than to neglect 
them for a wider range. The general reading can come 
later, after a correct taste has been formed. 

This leads us to the paramount object of studying lit- 
erature in schools ; namely, the developing of so pure a taste 
that the learner will be able to discriminate at once between 
real literature and trash. The time will come for our pupils 
when they cannot have parents, teachers, or friends by their 
side to tell them whether or not a book is good reading. 
They must learn to recognize for themselves the moral tend- 
ency, the literary character, the trend of influence, which 
constitute the inherent power for good or evil of any piece 
of writing. There is but one way for teachers to inculcate 
this, and that is by getting their pupils so thoroughly enam- 
ored with what is true and beautiful that they will instinc- 
tively turn away from everything of an opposite nature. 

In the author's opinion a teacher cannot do better than 
to follow the book through by a regular succession of lessons, 
using the questions and requirements found in the book, with 
such other questions and exercises as may be suggested by 
the wants of the class. Asking pupils to look up all they 
can learn from any source concerning an author or his works 
would be detrimental to the plan of this book, since the notice 
of authors has been made brief in order that the mind may 
be employed with their best productions — not with anything 
and everything which they may have written, nor with per- 
sonal idiosyncrasies which will only encourage a morbid 
inquisitiveness. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



INTRODUCTORY. 

Text Ques. 

Topic Page Page 

i. Advantages of Studying Literature 19 164 

2. Not Biographical 19 164 

3. But One Source of Wisdom 20 164 

4. All Men Fallible 20 164 

5. The Relation of History to Literature 21 164 



PART FIRST. 

HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

CHAPTER ONE. 
Origin of the English Nation and Language. 

6. The People 25 165 

7. The Language 27 165 

CHAPTER TWO. 
Beginnings of English Literature. 

Section I. — Early Writings of Keltic Origin. 

8. Keltic Character 30 166 

9. Keltic Poetry 31 166 

10. The First Poet 31 166 

Section II. — Earliest Literature of Teutonic Origin. 

11. Recreations among the Teutons 36 166 

12. Beowulf 36 166 

[7] 



> TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER THREE. 
From Caedmon to Chaucer. 

Section I. — First-English Period. 

13. In the Monasteries . . . 40 167 

14. Latin 40 167 

15. Bede ... 40 167 

16. Good King Alfred 41 167 

17. Other Old-English Writings 42 167 

18. Object of this Sketch 42 167 

Section II. — The Transition Period. 

19. Sudden Change 43 167 

20. Immediate Causes 43 168 

21. Confusion of Speech among the Common People. 45 168 

22. Layamon's " Brut " 46 168 

23. The " Ormulum " 47 168 

24. Conclusion 47 168 

CHAPTER FOUR. 
The Awakening. 

25. Irrepressible Spirit of the English People 48 168 

26. The Arrogance of Rome 48 169 

27. Romish Abuses Denounced 49 169 

28. Piers Plowman 49 169 

29. John Wycliffe 50 169 

30. Chaucer 52 169 

31. Mandeville 54 169 

32. The Literature of the Period Adapted to the 

Needs of the People 56 170 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. V 

CHAPTER FIVE. 
From Wycliffe and Chaucer to Milton. 

53. Length of the Period 57 170 

34. Men of the Period 58 171 

35. Language Improving in Euphony 58 171 

36. The Printing- Press 58 171 

37. Translations 59 171 

38. Tyndale and Luther 60 171 

39. Tyndale's Translation 60 171 

40. Sidney and Spenser 61 171 

41. Plan of Spenser's Great Poem 61 171 

42. Character of the Work 62 171 

43. Tendency to Scenic Representation 63 172 

44. The Drama 63 172 

45. Influence of the Drama 64 172 

46. Effects upon the Language 64 172 

47. Dramatic Writers 65 172 

48. Francis Bacon 66 172 

49. Richard Hooker 67 172 

CHAPTER SIX. 
Literature of the Seventeenth Century. 

50. General Character 70 173 

51. The Writers of the Period 70 173 

52. Order of Presentation 71 173 

53. Chillingworth 71 173 

54. Jeremy Taylor 73 173 

55. John Milton as a Prose-Writer 75 173 

56. Sir Matthew Hale 76 174 

57. Isaac Barrow 78 174 

58. Izaak Walton 80 174 

59. John Bunyan . 82 174 



10 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

60. Richard Baxter ,-j 84 175 

61. John Tillotson 86 175 

62. John Milton as a Poet 88 176 

63. John Dryden 93 176 

64. John Locke 95 176 

65. Sir Isaac Newton 98 177 

66. Historical Writers 99 177 

67. General Remarks on the Period 99 177 

Authors of the Seventeenth Century, Table of ioi 



CHAPTER SEVEN. 
The Eighteenth Century. 

68. Its Authors 102 178 

69. General Character of the Literature 103 178 

70. The Satirists 105 179 

71. Alexander Pope 105 179 

72. Joseph Addison 106 179 

73. Jonathan Swift 107 179 

74. Richard Steele 108 179 

75. Daniel Defoe 109 180 

76. Dr. Isaac Watts 1 1 1 180 

77. Lord Bolingbroke in 180 

78. Edward Young 112 180 

79. Bishop Butler 112 180 

80. Jonathan Edwards 113 180 

81. Benjamin Franklin 114 ii 

82. Dr. Samuel Johnson 115 18: 

83. The Historians 116 18: 

84. David Hume 116 

85. William Robertson 116 18: 

86. Edward Gibbon 117 18: 

87. Whitefield and Wesley 118 18: 

88. Horace Walpole 119 182 

89. Edmund Burke 120 182 

90. James Thomson 121 182 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 11 

91. Thomas Gray 122 182 

92. William Collins 122 182 

93. Oliver Goldsmith 123 183 

94. Dr. Beattie 125 183 

95. William Cowper %.. 127 183 

96. Robert Burns 128 184 

97. Fiction-Writers 131 184 

Authors of the Eighteenth Century, Table of 132 - 133 



CHAPTER EIGHT. 
The Nineteenth Century. 

98. Gradual Development , 134 185 

99. Dissemination 134 185 

100. The Lake Poets 135 185 

10 1. William Wordsworth .135 185 

102. Samuel T. Coleridge 136 185 

103. Robert Southey 137 186 

104. Sir Walter Scott , 137 186 

105. Lord Byron 139 186 

106. Charles Lamb 140 186 

107. Percy Bysshe Shelley 140 187 

108. John Keats 141 187 

109. Bishop Heber 142 187 

1 10. Charles Wolfe . '. 143 188 

in. Mrs. Hemans 145 188 

112. William Hazlitt. 146 188 

113. Henry Hallam 146 188 

114. Thomas Babington Macaulay 147 188 

115. Henry Hart Milman. .. 148 188 

116. Washington Irving 148 188 

117. William Paley 150 189 

118. William Wilberforce 151 189 

119. Dr. Adam Clarke 151 189 

120. Dr. Chalmers 152 189 

121. Hannah More 153 189 



12 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

122. Thomas Hood ... . 154 190 

123. Alfred Tennyson 155 190 

124. American Poets 156 190 

125. William Cullen Bryant 157 191 

126. Henry W. Longfellow 159 191 

127. John Greenleaf Whittier 159 191 

128. James Russell Lowell 160 191 

129. Oliver Wendell Holmes 160 192 

130. Nathaniel Hawthorne 161 192 

131. Charles Dickens 161 192 

132. Harriet Beecher Stowe : . 162 192 

133. Other Distinguished Writers 162 192 

134. Conclusion 163 193 

Questions on Part First 164 - 193 



PART SECOND. 

INTRODUCTORY. 

What Constitutes Literature 197 

Distinctions in Good Literature 199 

Useful Reading 201 

CHAPTER ONE. 

In Honor of the Creator. 

Immensity of God's Works, Joseph Addison 204 507 

Ode, Idem 206 508 

Omnipresence and Omniscience ot God, Idem 207 508 

Nature Worships God, J. G. Whittier 209 509 

The Source of All Good, J. M. Scott 210 509 

The Love of God (Translation), H. W. Longfellow . . . 211 510 



TABLE OF CONTEXTS. 13 

CHAPTER TWO. 

Education, florals, and Religion. 

Remarks on Education, W. E. Channing 214 511 

Practise and Habit, John Locke 219 513 

Brothers and a Sermon, Jean Ingelow 221 513 

Advantages of Truth and Sincerity, Tillotson 231 516 

The Bad Bargain, Hannah More 234 516 

The Gospel of Labor, Bishop Hall 235 517 

True Sensibility, Hannah More 236 517 

Elements of True Greatness, J. M. Scott 236 517 

The Sabbath, Charles T. Brooks 238 518 

Power of Interpretation, J. M. Scott 239 518 

Forgiveness, Whittier 240 519 

God Sees Not as Man Sees, Mrs. E. G. White 240 519 

The Healing of the Daughter of Jairus, Willis 243 519 

Evils of an Envious Spirit, Mrs. E. G. White 247 520 

Magnanimity, Idem 249 521 

Power of True Poetry, J. R. Lowell 250 521 

Effects of Religion in Old Age and Adversity, W. 

Wilberforce 253 522 

The Statute-book not Necessary toward Christianity, 

Dr. Chalmers 254 522 

Inefficacy of Mere Moral Preaching, Idem 255 523 

Building for Eternity, N. P. Willis 258 523 

Sanity of True Genius, Charles Lamb 260 524 

Superiority of the Moral over the Intellectual Nature 

of Man, George Henry Lewes " 263 525 

A Perfect Education, John W. Francis 264 525 

CHAPTER THREE. 

Studies in Nature. 

The Sky, John Ruskin 266 526 

Lines Written in Kensington Gardens, M. Arnold. . . . 268 527 
The Brightness of Nature Contrasted with Human 

Sorrows, George Eliot 270 528 



14 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

An English Landscape, E. B. Browning 271 529 

The Early Blue-bird, L. H. Sigourney 272 

The Humming-bird, /. J. Audubon 274 529 

The Cloud, P. B. Shelley 275 530 

Apostrophe to Winter, Cowper 278 531 

A Winter Morning, Idem 278 532 

The Ice Palace, Idem 280 533 

The Descent of the Ohio, Audubon 282 '534 

Precipices of the Alps, Ruskin 286 535 

Nature and Innocence, IV. Wordsworth 287 535 

An Evening Excursion on the Lake, Idem 288 536 

Scene in an Indian Forest, Kings ley 295 538 

The Picture of an Island, R. H. Dana 296 539 

Mountains, Howitt 297 539 

The Snow-shower, W. C. Bryant 302 541 

Autumn : Two Ways of Looking at the Dying Year, 

R. Southey 304 542 

Gardens of the Vatican, H. B. Stowc 305 543 

Mosses from an Old Manse, N. Hawthorne 306 543 

To a Mouse, Robert Burns 311 544 

On Seeing a Wounded Hare Limp by Me, Idem 312 545 

Rural Scenes, Cowper 313 545 

To a Mountain Daisy, Burns 319 547 

How to Find the Highest Enjoyment in Nature, Cowper 321 547 

Among the Isles of Shoals, C. Thaxter 323 548 

The Snow-storm, J. Thomson 326 549 

Hymn of Praise, Idem 327 550 

CHAPTER FOUR. 

Home Scenes and Influences. 

The Cotter's Saturday Night, Robert Burns 330 552 

Influence of Home, R. H. Dana 336 554 

Children Asleep, M, Arnold -. 337 554 

Repression, H. B. Stowe 338 555 

A New England Snow-storm and a Home Scene, 

S. Judd. 340 555 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 15 

To a Sleeping Child, Thomas Hood 342 556 

Home Life of the Primroses, Goldsmith 343 556 

Salutary Effects of Parental Discipline, Carlyle 347 557 



CHAPTER FIVE. 

Studies in Character. 

The Last Days of Washington, Irving 349 557 

The Carpenter, George Eliot 356 558 

Character of St. Paul, Dr. Paley 358 558 

Men of Our Times, H. B. Stowe ... 359 559 

O Captain ! My Captain ! Walt Whitman 362 559 

Joan of Arc, De Quincey 363 560 

Charles Sumner, H. B. Stowe 367 561 

May and November, N. Hawthorne 369 561 

Martin Luther, Dr. Robertson 372 561 

Character of Mary, Queen of Scots, Idem 374 562 

Victory through Suffering, Longfellow 376 563 

Men of Genius, 71 Carlyle 381 564 

Men of Real Genius Are Resolute Workers, Lewes. . . . 382 565 

Humble Worth, William Wordsworth 384 565 

Social Relations, Lilian Whiting 389 

Extracts from " The World Beautiful," Idem 390 

How to Take Life, Paul L. Dunbar , 391 



CHAPTER SIX. 

Descriptive and Narrative. 

A Battle of Ants, H. D. Thoreau 393 566 

The Three Children at Play, Tennyson 396 567 

Arden on the Island, Idem 396 567 

Funeral of a Beloved Teacher, Hannah More 399 568 

The Panther, J. F. Cooper 401 568 

Death Scene of Little Eva, H. B. Stowe 404 569 

Little Nell, Charles Dickens 407 569 



16 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

The Silent Sleeper, Idem. 410 570 

Mystery of Life, Ruskin 412 570 

From the " Deserted Village," Goldsmith. . . . . 416 571 

The " Bas Blanc," Hannah More 421 572 

A Letter, Idem 423 573 

Description of a Mendip Feast, Idem 424 573 



CHAPTER SEVEN. 

Public Speeches and Patriotic Sentiment. 

Oration on the Death of President Lincoln, Bancroft.. 426 574 

Speech in Independence Hall, Lincoln v 430 575 

Gettysburg Speech, Idem 432 575 

Barbara Frietchie, J. G. Whittier 433 576 

Difficulties in Trying to Conceal Crime, Webster 435 576 

Emancipation, J. G. Whittier 436 577 

National Partiality and Prejudice, Bolingbroke 437 577 

Patriotism ; Liberty ; Freedom, W. Cowper 438 577 



CHAPTER EIGHT. 
Reflective. 

The Night Journey of a River, W. C. Bryant. . 441 578 

Extract from " The Voyage," Irving 444 579 

Solitary Musings, Hannah More 448 580 

Silence, Thomas Hood 449 580 

The Sea of Death, Idem . 449 581 

The Fall of the Leaf, John Ruskin 451 581 

Contrasted Views, W. Wordsworth 451 582 

Man's Inhumanity to Man, Cowper 452 582 

Letter on Morning, D. Webster 455 582 

" Only a Year," H. B. Stowe 457 583 

Midnight Thoughts at Sea, L. H Sigourney 458 583 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 17 

From the Sermon on Autumn, Rev. A. Alison 459 584 

The Flood of Years, W. C. Bryant 462 585 

" Down to Sleep," Helen Hunt 466 

Courage, Celia Thaxter 467 



CHAPTER NINE. 
Miscellaneous. 

Travels in Palestine, Bayard Taylor 469 586 

The World Was Made with a Benevolent Design, 

Dr. Paley 473 587 

Quack Advertisements, Sir Richard Steele 476 588 

Security of Our Best Blessings, Bolingbroke 477 588 

The Best Thing in the World, E. B. Browning- 479 588 

On Revenge, Dr. Johnson 479 588 

From the Essay on History, Macaulay 482 589 

" They Say," James F. Cooper 486 590 

From History of Hypatia, Goldsmith 487 591 

Cyril, the Persecutor of Hypatia, Alonzo T. Jones .... 489 

Fine Writing, Arlo Bates 491 

A Golden Period in Roman History, Edward Gibbon. . 492 

False Grounds for " Holy Wars," Idem 494 

Rest, J. S. Dwight 497 

Counsel, M. E. M. Davis 498 



CHAPTER TEN. 
Short Extracts. 

499 - 506 

Questions and Requirements on Part Second 507 - 591 

Alphabetical Index of Authors 593 - 599 



. . STUDIES IN . . 

English and American 
Literature. 



INTRODUCTORY. 

1, Advantages of Studying Literature. — 

In studying the literature of a nation, we become ac- 
quainted with the best thoughts of its best minds. In 
such writings, we have revealed to us the highest ideals 
and the noblest motives that prevailed during the succes- 
sive periods of the nation's growth. Daily association 
with such thoughts and motives has its influence upon 
the mind of the learner. It calls into action the best 
that is in him. It fosters a love for pure thoughts and 
beautiful expression ; it creates a distaste for whatever 
is low or unworthy. Thus one comes at length to turn 
from coarse or worthless reading as instinctively as from 
vulgar society. 

2. Not Biographical. — We like to form the per- 
sonal acquaintance of those whose writings have de- 
lighted us ; but we can do that by private reading. Our 
time in school would be better taken up with the more 
important study of the truths which their writings reveal, 
— subjects in which we need the guidance of a teacher. 
And besides, it is not always profitable to study the per- 

[19] 



20 INTRODUCTORY. 

sonal traits of authors. They could never in their lives 
rise higher than the ideals which they have presented in 
their writings ; and if they had foibles or disagreeable 
habits, it cannot make us wiser, and should not make 
us happier, to know them. 

We shall, therefore, give attention to the literature 
itself rather than to the peculiarities of the writers who 
produced it. What we want is the best an author has 
to give us, — thoughts that inspire, and language that 
teaches the art of expression. " Whatsoever things are 
pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things 
are of good report," — these we will study and take to 
ourselves. 

3. But One Source of Wisdom. — There is but 
one original source of light and truth, and that is not 
among men. All true wisdom comes from the Father 
of Lights, who rules above, and who has revealed him- 
self in the works of creation, in the Written Word, and 
in his influence on the inner consciousness of men. 

Some are, by nature or by culture, more susceptible 
to these revelations than are others. They can better 
read the handwriting of God in nature. Their hearts 
are so attuned that they more readily vibrate to the pul- 
sations of the great universal Heart of Love. Such are 
truth's interpreters, — the 4 ' singers " that God has sent 
to earth — 

"That they might touch the hearts of men, 
And bring them back to heaven again." 

4". All Men Fallible. — Men possessed of such 
rare gifts are said to have genius. But genius may err. 
The choicest gifts are held in earthen vessels. Even 



INTRODUCTORY. 21 

those who are so highly favored, have human passions 
and weaknesses like other men, and thus the light that 
shines through them is often more or less obscured. 
Like flaws in glass, their imperfections of character may 
sometimes produce distorted images. In literature, as 
in mining, — even in the richest of mines, — the sands of 
error must be washed from the pure gold of truth. Noth- 
ing but direct revelation can be absolutely perfect. Yet 
we can find many writings whose chief tendency is in 
the right direction, — writings that will bring us into 
closer touch with nature, into truer sympathy with hu- 
mankind, and into a better "attitude for receiving the 
truth and light with which the great All-Father is ever 
trying to impress us. 

5. The Relation of History to Literature. — 

The inner life of men is revealed through their words 
and through their deeds. Great events are first worked 
out in some one's brain. The scheme is made known to 
others by means of language, and then — by the united 
action of many — the event is consummated. Naturally, 
the thought — the conception — comes first, and then 
the deed. Literature is a record of thoughts ; history is 
a record of deeds : hence the former takes precedence of 
the latter. But they mutually react upon each other, 
and it is almost impossible to treat of them separately. 
So, in order to trace the literature of English-speaking 
people through its different periods, it is necessary to 
know something of their history. 

Part First contains a brief account of the forming of 
the nation, and of the development of its language, its 
thought, its literature, — tracing their progress through 



22 INTRODUCTORY. 

successive periods, from the rudest beginnings to the 
highest state of enlightenment and literary achievement. 
Part Second will be devoted more to studies in litera- 
ture, as such, without direct reference to the date of the 
selections introduced. 



PART FIPST. 



HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 



[23 



CHAPTER ONE. 



Origin of the English Nation and 
Language. 

6. The People. — It is supposed that the early 
inhabitants of England came originally from the far 
East, probably from Western Asia. One wave of emigra- 
tion followed another, until — in the course of many 
generations — the foremost of them was crowded west- 
ward to the shores of the Atlantic. From the coast of 
what is now France and Spain some of these people, 
known as the Kelts, found their way to the British Isles, 
and were there called Britons. These ancient Keltic 
Britons were in two divisions, — the Kimry and the 
Gaels. The Gaelic Kelts spread into Scotland, and 
were afterward known as Picts and Scots. 

About sixty years before Christ, the Romans, under 
Caesar, conquered the Britons, and held possession of 
Southeastern England for more than four hundred years. 
Meantime, another branch, belonging to the same great 
family as the Kelts, had — in the course of centuries — 
made their way by degrees across the continent, and set- 
tled in Northwestern Europe. These Teutons, as they 
were called, were bold and warlike in temper, quite 
unlike the more peaceful and beauty-loving Kelts. After 
the Romans left England, the adventurous Teutons made 
their way into that country, and also took possession of 
Northern France. Some of the Teutons who gained a 
foothold in England were known as Angles, and from 

[*5] 



26 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

them the country took its name — Angle-land, or Eng- 
land. The people of England were at this time very 
rude in their manner of living, and seemed to be fond of 
war for its own sake. Other bands of Teutons, from 
time to time, came across the North Sea from the Conti- 
nent, especially from Denmark, and formed colonies on 
the east coast of England. Those already in possession 
of the country resisted these encroachments, and for 
many years there was almost continual fighting. At one 
time the country was divided into six or eight petty 
kingdoms. These were finally united under the good 
King Alfred, and during his wise reign the country grew 
rapidly in wealth and intelligence. 

The Teutons who had invaded France received the 
name there of Northmen (Normans) — since they came 
from the North — and their country was called Nor- 
mandy. The French, known at that time as Gauls, were 
even then an affable people, more polite and better edu- 
cated than the Teutons. The Normans associated freely 
with the French, adopted their language almost wholly, 
and became more refined by the intercourse. In the 
eleventh century, Normandy was ruled by a bold, am- 
bitious prince, afterward known as William the Con- 
queror. In the year 1066 he invaded England, won the 
battle of Hastings, and established himself as ruler of the 
country. For many years there was mutual hatred 
between the conquerors and the conquered. But when 
wars arose that threatened the safety of England, they 
united in defense of their common country, fought side 
by side, and were afterward better friends. Thus it was 
that the Kelts, Teutons, and Norman French combined, 
intermarried, and formed the English people. 



ORIGIN OF THE ENGLISH NATION AND LANGUAGE. 27 

7. The Language. — The English language, like 
the people who speak it, is composite. It was formed 
from the diverse elements furnished by the different peo- 
ples who united to form the nation. These elements, 
however, were in very unequal proportion. 

As the Teutons were the dominant people in forming 
the nation, so the Teutonic element constituted the basis 
of the language known as First-English, or Anglo-Saxon. 
The term "Anglo-Saxon" does not, however, imply a 
commingling of two different languages; for the speech 
of the Angles and that of the Saxons was essentially 
the same. 

For nearly a thousand years, this First-English was 
the prevailing language in England. The Kelts resisted 
the encroachments of the Teutons with great bravery; 
but, being a milder people, they were subdued, and finally 
mingled and intermarried with their more hardy neigh- 
bors. Thus, as the slow centuries rolled by, the Keltic 
tongue gradually fell into disuse. At the present time, 
scarcely a trace of it can be discovered in modern English 
writings, though it still characterizes the vernacular of 
the common people in Wales, Ireland, the Isle of Man, 
and the adjacent parts of England and Scotland. 

The Roman occupation of England affected the lan- 
guage but little, and that mainly in the names of a few 
places. The Danes who formed colonies on the eastern 
coast of England also left traces of their language in 
the names of places. 

When the Normans, under William, took possession 
of England, they became the ruling people. Their lan- 
guage, the Norman-French, was the only one allowed at 
court or in legal proceedings, and soon became the fash- 



28 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

ionable speech in polite circles. For a long time the two 
languages remained distinct ; but as succeeding genera- 
tions forgot the animosities of their fathers, there came a 
fusion of the languages as well as of the people. 

The language spoken by the French people at this 
time was called a Romanz tongue, because it was derived 
from the Latin, the language used in Rome. The Ro- 
manz tongues were composed mainly of Latin words ; 
but many of the words had been changed, in their 
orthography as well as in their pronunciation. This 
imperfect Latin was still further corrupted by the Nor- 
mans, and was then called Norman-French. This was 
the language which was brought into England by the 
Normans, and which has given our modern English so 
many Latinized words. 

The Old-English words (now called Saxon) are 
shorter and stronger than the words derived from Latin, 
and constitute the greater part of the speech of our 
common people, especially in naming utensils that are 
in constant use, and in talking of domestic or other ordi- 
nary affairs of life. The Latinized words give a smoother 
flow to language, and are quite freely used in scientific 
and technical works, as well as in other writings where 
scrupulous exactness and close discrimination are required. 

These different elements give our language greater 
facility, and by furnishing two or more words of the 
same meaning enable us to avoid unpleasant repeti- 
tions. The following paragraph is quoted from Cham- 
bers's Cyclopedia of English Literature : — 

The great bulk of our laws and social institutions, the gram- 
matical structure of our language, our most familiar and habitual 
expressions in common life, are derived from our rude northern 



ORIGIN OF THE ENGLISH NATION AND LANGUAGE. 29 

invaders ; and now, after fourteen centuries, their language, en- 
riched from various and distant sources, has become the speech of 
fifty millions of people, to be found in all quarters of the globe.* 
May we not assume that the national character, like the national 
language, has been molded and enriched by this combination of 
races ? The Keltic imagination and impulsive ardor, the Saxon 
solidity, the old Norse maritime spirit and love of adventure, the 
later Norman chivalry and keen sense of enjoyment, — these have 
been the elements, slowly combined under northern skies, and 
interfused by a pure ennobling religion, that have gone forth in 
literature and in life, the moral pioneers and teachers of the world. 



*More than one hundred and fifty millions now. 



CHAPTER TWO. 



Beginnings of English Literature. 

I. EARLY WRITINGS OF KELTIC ORIGIN. 

8. Keltic Character. — The Kelts had an emo- 
tional nature, with quick sympathies and a ready appre- 
ciation of beauty in form or color. It is not surprising 
that people with such a temperament should seek to 
express themselves in history and in song. Accordingly, 
we find that as early as the third century there were 
both historians and bards in Ireland, and that they had 
there what might be termed an incipient school of lit- 
erature. A distinct literary class was maintained at the 
public expense, and the gift for literary work was sup- 
posed to descend from generation to generation, in the 
same family. Christianity also found a welcome among 
these people much earlier than among the Teutons, who 
seem to have been less susceptible to tender influences. 
It was by the Gaelic Kelts that Christianity was first 
carried into Scotland. It has been clearly shown that 
when Pope Gregory sent the Italian Augustine as a mis- 
sionary to the South of England, the Keltic missionaries 
had been at work for generations among the English of 
the North. 

Of the character of these people, Mr. Morley says, — 

The pure Gael — now represented by the Irish and Scotch 
Kelts — was, at his best, an artist. He had a sense of literature, 
he had active and bold imagination, joy in bright color, skill in 
[3o] 



BEGINNINGS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. 31 

music, touches of a keen sense of honor in most savage times, 
and in religion fervent and self-sacrificing zeal. In the Kimry 
— now represented by the Kelts of Wales — there was the 
same artist nature. 

He also says that in the fusion of the two races, 
Kelts and Teutons, the gift of genius was the contribu- 
tion of the Kelt. The influence of the Keltic race upon 
English literature was not exerted directly through their 
fragmentary writings, nor by the ' ' example set by one 
people, and followed by another ; but in the way of 
nature, — by the establishment of blood relationship, and 
the transmission of modified and blended character to 
a succeeding generation." 

9. Keltic Poetry. — There were a number of 
Keltic bards who wrote poetic descriptions of battles, 
and of other events that roused the passions and activi- 
ties of men to the highest pitch ; but, for the most part, 
only fragments of these not unworthy productions 
remain. 

10. The First Poet.— A little past the middle of 
the seventh century a Keltic poet called Csedmon wrote 
in verse a paraphrase of many parts of the Bible. The 
story of his experiences and conscientious efforts is 
briefly told in the following lines, which appeared in 
Macmillari s Magazine. The lines themselves are in 
imitation of the style of Caedmon's simple yet touch- 
ing verse. 

Dwelt a certain poor man in his day, 
Near at hand to Hilda's holy house, 
Learning's lighthouse, blessed beacon, built 
High o'er sea and river, on the head, 



32 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

Streaneshalch in Anglo-Saxon speech, 
Whitby, after by the Norsemen named. 
Caedmon was he called ; he came and went, 
Doing humble duties for the monks, 
Helping with the horses at behest, — 
Modest, meek, unmemorable man, 
Moving slowly into middle age, 
Toiling on — twelve hundred years ago. 

Still and silent, Caedmon sometimes sat 
With the serfs at lower end of hall ; 
There he marveled much to hear the monks 
Singing sweetly hymns unto their harp, 
Handing it from each to each in turn, 
Till his heart-strings trembled. Other while, 
When the serfs were merry with themselves, 
Sung their folk-songs upon festal nights, 
Handing round the harp to each in turn, 
Caedmon, though he loved not lighter songs, 
Longed to sing ; but he could never sing. 

Sad and silent would he creep away, 
Wander forth alone — he wist not why — 
Watch the sky and water, stars or clouds 
Climbing from the sea ; and in his soul 
Shadows mounted up and mystic lights, 
Echoes vague and vast returned the voice 
Of the rushing river, roaring waves, 
Twilight's windy whisper from the fells, 
Howl of brindled wolf, and cry of bird ; 
Every sight and sound of solitude 
Ever mingling in a master thought — 
Glorious, terrible — of the Mighty One 
Who made all things. As the Book declared, 
"'■In the beginning he made Heaven and Earth." 

Thus lived Caedmon, quiet year by year ; 
Listened, learned a little, as he could ; 
Worked, and mused, and prayed, and held his peace. 



BEGINNINGS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. 33 

Toward the end of harvest time, the hinds 
Held a feast, and sung their festal songs, 
Handing round the harp from each to each ; 
But before it came where Caedmon sat, 
Sadly, silently, he stole away, 
Wandered to the stable-yard, and wept ; 
Weeping, laid him low among the straw, — 
Fell asleep at last. And in his sleep 
Came a Stranger, calling him by name : 
"Caedmon, sing to me." " I cannot sing. 
Wherefore — wo is me ! — I left the house." 
" Sing, I bid thee ! " " What, then, shall I sing ? " 
" Sing the Making of the World." Whereon 
Caedmon sung : and when he woke from sleep, 
Still the verses stayed with him, and more 
Sprang like fountain-water from a rock 
Fed from never-failing secret springs. 

Praising Heaven most high, but nothing proud, 
Caedmon sought the steward, and told his tale, 
Who to Holy Hilda led him in, 
Pious Princess Hilda, pure of heart, 
Ruling Mother, royal Edwin's niece. 
Caedmon at her bidding boldly sang 
Of the Making of the World, in words 
Wondrous ; whereupon they wotted well 
' T was an Angel taught him, and his gift 
Came direct from God : and glad were they. 

Thenceforth Holy Hilda greeted him 
Brother of the brotherhood. He grew 
Famedst monk of all the monastery ; 
Singing many high and holy songs 
Folk were fain to hear, and loved him for ; 
Till his death-day came, that comes to all. 

Caedmon bode that evening in his bed, 
He at peace with men, and men with him ; 
Wrapped in comfort of the Eucharist ; 



34 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

Weak and silent. " Soon our Brethren sing 
Evensong ? " he whispered. " Brother, yea." 
" Let us wait for that," he said; and soon 
Sweetly sounded up the solemn chant. 
Csedmon smiled and listened ; when it lulled, 
Sidelong turned to sleep his old white head, 
Shut his eyes, and gave his soul to God, 
Maker of the World. 

Twelve hundred years 
Since are past and gone, nor he forgot, 
Earliest Poet of the English Race. 
Rude and simple were his days and thoughts. 
Wisely speaketh no man, howso learned, 
Of the making of this wondrous world, 
Save a Poet, with a reverent soul. 

Though so simple in style, the poems of Csedmon 
are not wanting in dignity, nor marks of genius. In the 
opening of his description of the creation are these 
lines : — 

Most right it is that we praise with our words, 

Love in our minds, the Warden of the skies ! 

Glorious King of all the hosts of men ! 

He speeds the strong, and is the head of all 

His high creation, the Almighty Lord. 

None formed him; no first was nor last shall be 

Of the Eternal Ruler, but his sway 

Is everlasting over thrones in heaven. 

Of the first state of the earth, he says, — 

There had not here, as yet, 

Save cavern shade, aught been; 

But this wide abyss stood deep and dim, 

Strange to its Lord, idle and useless. 



BEGINNINGS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. 35 

It may be noticed that Caedmon's lines are without 
rime, that they are unequal in length and irregular in 
meter. They have, however, a rude alliteration, which 
consists in a recurrence of similar consonant sounds at 
the beginning of words. This is a characteristic of the 
earlier poems of our language. 

Caedmon's account of Satan's revolt in heaven is 
strikingly suggestive of Milton's more polished descrip- 
tion written a thousand years later. Here are a few 
lines : — 

" Wherefore," said he, " shall I toil? 
No need have I of master. I can work 
With my own hands great marvels, and have power 
To build a throne more worthy of a god, — 
Higher in heaven. Why shall I, for his smile 
Serve him, bend to him thus in vassalage? 
I may be God as He. 

Stand by me, strong supporters, firm in strife. 
Hard-mooded heroes, famous warriors, 
Have chosen me for chief : one may take thought 
With such for counsel, and with such secure 
Large following. My friends, in earnest they, 
Faithful in all the shaping of their minds: 
I am their master, and may rule this realm." 

And again, after his fall, — 

Satan discoursed, — he who henceforth ruled hell 
Spake sorrowing. 

God's angel erst, he had shone white in heaven, 
Till his soul urged, and most of all its pride, 
That of the Lord of Hosts he should no more 
Bend to the word. About his heart his soul 
Tumultuously heaved, hot pains of wrath 
Without him. 



36 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

The following lines are from the description of the 
deluge : — 

The Lord sent rain from heaven, and also 

Empty let the well-brooks through on the world; 

From every vein the torrent streams 

Dark-sounded; 

The sea rose o'er their shore-walls. 

Stern and strong was he who o'er the waters swayed, 

Covered and overwhelmed the sinful sons of middle 

earth 
With the dark waves. 

The extracts here given have been modernized, espe- 
cially in their spelling; otherwise they would be hard to 
interpret. 

II. EARLIEST LITERATURE OF TEUTONIC ORIGIN. 

11. Recreations among the Teutons. — The 

Teutonic settlers in England were fond of exercising 
their prowess in war; and when not engaged in bloody 
strife, they delighted to meet in their great mead-halls 
made of unhewn logs, indulge in jovial intercourse, and 
sing the praises of some valorous chief. Their singers 
were called gleemen, a name suggestive of the nature 
of their songs. 

12. Beowulf. — The most noted chief of whom 
they sung was Beowulf. The recital of his brave deeds 
grew into a rugged epic of over six thousand lines. The 
origin of this savage poem is unknown ; but it is thought 
to have been composed before the Teutons invaded 
England, and to have been brought into the country 
by them. It was probably not put into writing earlier 
than the seventh century. 



BEGINNINGS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. 37 

A comparison of this poem with the writings of Csed- 
mon will show what the refining influence of the Chris- 
tian faith had done for the Keltic bard. The contrast 
is striking. In the one, we find coarse wassailing and 
deadly strife ; in the other, the mild but beautiful light 
of the gospel of peace. 

An epitome of the theme of ' ' Beowulf " is thus given 
by a noted author : — 

Its hero sails from a land of the Goths to a land of the 
Danes, and there frees a chief named Hrothgar from the attacks 
of a monster of the fens and moors, named Grendel. Afterward 
he is himself ruler, is wounded mortally in combat with a dragon, 
and is solemnly buried under a great barrow on a promontory 
rising high above the sea. " And round about the mound rode 
his hearth-sharers, who sang that he was of kings, of men, the 
mildest, kindest, to his people sweetest, and the readiest in search 
of praise." In this poem real events are transformed into legen- 
dary marvels ; but the actual life of the old Danish and Scandi- 
navian chiefs, as it was first transferred to this country, is 
vividly painted. It brings before us the feast in the mead-hall, 
with the chief and his hearth-sharers, the customs of the banquet, 
the rude beginnings of a courtly ceremony, the boastful talk, reli- 
ance upon strength of hand in grapple with the foe, and the 
practical spirit of adventure that seeks peril as a commercial 
speculation ; for Beowulf is undisguisedly a tradesman in his 
sword. The poem includes also expression of the heathen fatal- 
ism, " What is to be goes ever as it must," tinged by the ener- 
getic sense of men who feel that even fate helps those who help 
themselves, or, as it stands in Beowulf, that "the Must Be 
often helps an undoomed man when he is brave." 

In directness, force, and brevity, the language of 
this strange production corresponds, in its homely 
strength, to the character of the people from whom it 
sprung. This vigor of expression, united with the ten- 



38 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

derness of the Kelt and the flexibility of the Norman, 
has given us the heritage of a language unsurpassed 
and scarcely equaled in force, adaptability, or beauty. 
The following extract from " Morley's English Wri- 
ters " will give a very good example of the style of 
"Beowulf" sufficiently modernized to be intelligible to 
ordinary readers : — 

Then came from the moor under the misty hills, Grendel 
stalking : the wicked spoiler meant in the lofty hall to snare one 
of mankind. He strode under the clouds until he saw the wine- 
house, golden hall of men. Came then faring to the house the 
joyless man ; he rushed straight on the door, fast with fire-hard- 
ened bands, struck with his hands, dragged open the hall's 
mouth : quickly then trod the fiend on the stained floor, went 
wroth of mood, and from his eyes stood forth a loathsome light, 
likest to flame. He saw in the house many war-men sleeping all 
together, then was his mood laughter. Hope of a sweet glut had 
arisen in him. But it was not for him after that night to eat 
more of mankind. The wretched wight seized quickly a sleeping 
warrior, slit him unawares, bit his bone-locker, drank his blood, 
in morsels swallowed him : soon had he all eaten, feet and fin- 
gers. Nearer forth he stepped, laid hands upon the doughty- 
minded warrior at his rest ; but Beowulf reached forth a hand 
and hung upon his arm. Soon as the evil-doer felt that there 
was not in mid-earth a stronger hand-grip, he became fearful 
in heart. Not for that could he escape the sooner, though his 
mind was bent on flight. He would flee into his den, seek the 
pack of devils ; his trial there was such as in his life-days he 
had never before found. The hall thundered, the ale of all the 
Danes and earls was spilt. Angry, fierce were the strong fighters ; 
the hall was full of the din. It was great wonder that the wine- 
hall stood above the warlike beasts, that the fair earth-home fell 
not to the ground. But within and without it was fast with iron 
bands cunningly forged. Over the North Danes stood dire fear, 
on every one of those who heard the gruesome whoop. The 
friend of earls held fast the deadly guest, — would not leave him 



BEGINNINGS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. 39 

while living. Then drew a warrior of Beowulf an old sword of 
his father's for help of his lord. The sons of strife sought then 
to hew on every side, they knew not that no war-blade would cut 
into the wicked scather ; but Beowulf had foresworn every edge. 
Hygelac's proud kinsman had the foe of God in hand. The fell 
wretch bore pain ; a deadly wound gaped on his shoulder ; the 
sinews sprang asunder ; the bone-locker burst ; to Beowulf was 
war-strength given. Grendel fled away death-sick, to seek a sad 
dwelling under the fen shelters ; his life's end was come. 



CHAPTER THREE. 



From C^edmon to Chaucer. 

I. FIRST=ENGLISH PERIOD. 

13. In the Monasteries. — During this long 
period of four hundred years there were many good 
scholars in England ; but learning was confined, for the 
most part, to the monasteries. Schools were estab- 
lished in some of them, and were not without earnest 
and devoted teachers ; but it was expected that the pupils 
taught there would teach in other monasteries, and so 
learning, even of the most meager kind, was almost 
unknown among the people at large. 

14% Latin, — During these centuries, and for some 
time afterward, Latin was regarded as the language of 
the learned. For this reason the scholars of England 
wrote in Latin, instead of putting their thoughts into 
the language that has since won its way over every 
obstacle. Thus the means of intellectual culture were 
withheld from the great body of the people. 

15. Bede. — This good priest, known as "the ven- 
erable Bede," worked devotedly for fifty years in 
trying to enlighten all who came within reach of his 
influence. He gleaned knowledge from obscure and 
difficult sources, simplified it, and arranged it in conve- 
nient forms, so that it might be not only easy of access 
[40] 



FROM C.EDMON TO CHAUCER. 41 

but easy of acquirement to all who were studying in the 
monastery schools. But he entrusted his precious treas- 
ures to the Latin language only, and thus placed them 
beyond the reach of those who most needed help. 
Toward the close of his life he began the work of trans- 
lating the Gospels into English, and died a few mo- 
ments after completing the Gospel of St. John. His 
most extensive work was the "Ecclesiastical History 
of England." 

16. The Good King Alfred. — In the early part 
of his reign, King Alfred met with reverses that com- 
pelled him to wander for a time in disguise among his 
lowliest subjects. This was not a lost experience ; for 
it taught him the honest worth and the greatest need 
of his people. 

After many severe struggles he succeeded in subduing 
his enemies, and securing union and peace. He then 
set to work to benefit his subjects by giving them the 
means of mental and moral culture. No one in his 
realm worked more diligently than he. He translated 
and wrote almost constantly, and got others to help him. 
So far as possible, he furnished text-books in language 
so simple and so familiar that all who could read could 
understand, and so attractive that those who could not 
read would be induced to learn the art. He translated 
many valuable works, and among them were the "Ec- 
clesiastical History of England" and other writings by 
Bede ; the "Consolations of Philosophy," by Boethius ; 
and the best work then extant on ancient history. He 
instituted the great "Saxon Chronicle," by which the 
history of the country, so far as it could be obtained, 



42 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

was recorded down to his day and continued through 
his lifetime. From the impulse which he gave this 
important work, it was carried on by the monks in the 
monasteries for generations after his death. He also 
prepared accounts of voyages and travels in other lands. 
Thus he spent his life in educating his people and in 
trying to build up a healthy, happy kingdom. 

Alfred did more than simply to translate. He gave 
explanations of difficult or obscure passages, and made 
many important additions to the text. His writings are 
considered the purest English of his time. They were 
gladly received by the people, those who could not read 
gathering in companies to hear from the lips of those 
who could. 

17. Other Old-English Writings. — The period 
was not without its thinkers and writers, but there was 
not much written that was characterized by sufficient 
genius to keep it from oblivion. It must be remem- 
bered, too, that the art of printing was then unknown, 
and that books had to be produced, one by one, through 
the slow process of handwriting. 

Many works, especially those in verse, were lost for 
centuries, and remain to us now only in fragments, or 
in some dingy and worn old manuscript that has been 
rescued from its obscure hiding-place in some ancient 
monastery. 

18. Object of this Sketch. — Thus we have traced 
briefly and imperfectly, the beginnings of English litera- 
ture, not because the writings of that period are profit- 
able for present reading, but because a knowledge of 



FROM C.EDMO^ TO CHAUCER. 43 

these first fruits, and of the causes and conditions that 
produced them, will aid us in the study of more modern 
productions. 

II. THE TRANSITION PERIOD. 

19. Sudden Change. — The effect of the Norman 
Conquest upon the English language and literature was 
immediate and far-reaching. The English tongue was 
no longer heard in polite circles nor used in the writing 
of books. Native genius no longer expressed itself in 
the mother tongue, but gave its contributions to enrich 
the literature of other nations. For a time it seemed 
as if the inspirations of the poet, the wisdom of the 
philosopher, or the chronicles of the historian would 
never again come to the people in the words that had 
become so dear to them by centuries of familiar use. 

20. Immediate Causes. — Although the early 
fathers of the people who invaded England under 
William were Teutons, like those of the people whom 
they sought to subdue, they had been entirely trans- 
formed and in many ways much improved by their 
intercourse with the French. The bold Norse adven- 
turers married French maidens, and the French mothers 
used — and taught their children to use — the only lan- 
guage the mothers knew, — that spoken by the French 
people. Thus the work of assimilation went on from 
generation to generation till a new people was formed, 
having the strength of the North combined with the 
language and polish of the South. 

It is not to be wondered at that to such a people 
the plain manners of their Northern neighbors should 



44 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

seem coarse and repulsive, or that the solid worth hidden 
beneath so rude an exterior should be slow in finding 
the appreciation which it deserved. Thus the Normans 
had a strong aversion to the English, and the English as 
heartily despised and hated their conquerors. From this 
cause, the two peoples who were destined to form so 
strong a union were held apart for more than a century. 

The kings who now sat on the throne of England 
were of foreign birth. They did not love the English 
(whom they called Saxons), but sought to enslave 
rather than to improve the people among whom they 
had come to dwell. Saxon thanes were driven from 
their possessions, to give place to Norman nobles, who 
ruled as feudal lords, and exercised the despotism of 
petty kings. The common people were many of them 
reduced to a vassalage as odious as it was unjust. The 
king and his nobles wanted hunting-grounds ; so they 
drove the inhabitants from vast tracts of country, de- 
priving the people of their homes in order to make a 
playground for themselves. 

But in nothing was more complete monopoly at- 
tempted than in language and literature. How well the 
attempt succeeded, has already been noticed. No means 
were neglected that could tend to make the new lan- 
guage universal. The monasteries were still the seats 
of learning ; and these centers of education were ruled 
by French-speaking abbots appointed by the king. 
French-speaking nobles ruled in feudal castles all over 
the land, exercising a wide influence. All the ecclesias- 
tics were men whom the king could trust to carry out 
his wishes. Even the laws were in French, and all 
legal proceedings had to be carried on in that language. 



FROM CiEDMON TO CHAUCER. 45 

The writers of the age deserted the language they had 
learned at their mother's knee. Latin was the language 
of learning throughout Europe ; so every one who 
wanted to gain a wide popularity wrote in Latin. Thus 
did both fashion and power conspire against stout old 
English. 

But the universal language of a people cannot be 
changed by arbitrary power nor by fashionable neglect, 
especially a language that has been rooted in their 
hearts by a thousand years of loving association. The 
common people were made of tough fiber ; they were 
the descendants of a stern ancestry. Although com- 
pelled to submit to outward rule, their inward spirit of 
independence could not be subdued. Their thoughts, 
their speech, their love of home and country, their faith 
in God and themselves, — these were treasures of which 
no tyrant's hand could despoil them. It was only when 
common interests and common sympathies united the 
hearts of these two peoples that there came a peaceable 
blending of their languages. 

21. Confusion of Speech among the Common 
People. — Before the Norman Conquest, the English 
language had become firmly established among the schol- 
arly men who'wrote in it. Although the spelling of its 
words was variant, its grammatical forms were well fixed 
and carefully adhered to. Then, as now, the unedu- 
cated classes were careless in their speech, and in differ- 
ent sections of the country peculiar dialects prevailed. 
But as the effect of the Norman tongue began to be felt, 
established usages were broken up, and some who still 
wished to write in their native language uttered loud 



46 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

complaints against the encroachments of foreign words 
and idioms. Uncorrected by the influence of the edu- 
cated classes, the dialects heard in different parts of the 
country became more and more distinct, so that the 
people of one section could scarcely be understood by 
those of another. For nearly a hundred years these 
conditions seemed, in the main, to grow worse instead 
of better. When at last the language began to emerge 
from this chaos, it was not a new language, but it was 
very much changed. With all its influx of French words 
it was grammatically a more simple language than ever 
before, having lost most of its inflections, especially 
those of the noun. Of course the relations and condi- 
tions formerly indicated by inflections had to be ex- 
pressed by separate words. During this transition 
period, especially toward the latter part of it, there 
were not a few who wrote in English ; but their works 
are, for the most part, unimportant in the study of lit- 
erature. They were principally on religious themes, and 
are chiefly interesting as indications of the changes that 
were taking place in the language. 

22. Layamon's' "Brut." — About one hundred 
and fifty years after the Conquest, a priest by the name 
of Layamon wrote in verse a chronicle of Britain. It 
was mostly derived from Keltic traditions that had been 
preserved in France and parts of England. The story 
makes Brutus, a son of the Trojan .ZEneas, a founder of 
the British line of monarchs. It was written for the 
common people of a rural district, and was a specimen 
of pure Saxon. It is said that the original text did not 
contain fifty words taken from the French. 



FROM C2EDMON TO CHAUCER. 47 

23. The " Ormulum. ,, — In the thirteenth cen- 
tury a writer by the name of Orm, or Ormin, wrote in 
verse a series of homilies based upon portions of the 
New Testament. It is evidently the work of a good 
man, with worthy motives but very little genius. The 
book was called, from, its author's name, the " Ormu- 
lum." Its language, though quaint, resembles that of 
modern times much more than does that in the 
4 'Brut" of Layamon. 

24s Conclusion. — To the critical student of lan- 
guages and their development, this transition period, of 
nearly three hundred years, affords a very interesting 
study; but for the purpose of this book, it might be 
unprofitable to give it more than this passing notice. 
With this period closes the Ancient, or Early, English, 
and also the Middle, or Transition, English. With the 
writings of the latter part of the fourteenth century 
begins our Modern English. During the five centuries 
since that time the language has received many modifica- 
tions and many new words, but there has been no radi- 
cal change in its fundamental structure. 



CHAPTER FOUR. 



The Awakening. 

25. Irrepressible Spirit of the English Peo- 
ple. — Although checked and impeded by the results of 
the Norman invasion, the current of English thought 
could not be restrained for any long period. Its springs 
were too deep and copious to be dried, even by the with- 
ering drought of oppression. The English people were 
cast in too large a mold to be held under the heel of tyr- 
anny. Their native love of independence burned within 
them, and sooner or later was certain to burst forth. 
Titles and lands they could be compelled to yield, but 
their freedom of conscience, never. 

26. The Arrogance of Rome. — The Christian 
religion had been a blessing to the English people. The 
best literature the nation could boast had been prompted 
by the pure principles and unselfish motives taught in 
the Bible. Not only had the moral tone of English 
literature been improved by contact with these sacred 
writings, but the language itself was greatly enriched by 
the bold imagery and refined diction of the tongues in 
which the Scriptures had been written, and through 
which they had been translated. 

But the Church of Rome had become arrogant. She 
had presumed to dictate to the people, not only what 
they should think, and how they should worship, but 
I" 48 1 



THE AWAKENING. 49 

what they should do with their hard-earned means. 
Mendicant friars were sent all through England begging 
for the church. It was said that the taxes paid to the 
church were ten times as great as those required by the 
government. Thus the people were really impoverished 
by the unnecessary demands of a power that had no 
love for them and gave them very little in return. 

But worst of all, many of these friars, as well as the 
priests themselves, were corrupt in character. They 
did not even give the people the benefit of a good 
example. 

27. Romish Abuses Denounced. — At last the 
exasperation of the people began to break out in sar- 
casm and denunciation. Men of learning and genius were 
aroused, and began .to write against the abuses prac- 
tised by the greedy emissaries of Rome. Foremost 
among these were William Langland and John Wycliffe. 

28. Piers Plowman. — Langland wrote a poem 
called the "Vision of Piers Plowman," in which Peter 
the Plowman represents the peasantry, or rural work- 
ing people of the country. The author falls asleep on 
the Malvern Hills, and sees in vision a company of peo- 
ple. In his poem he records what he saw and heard. 
In this way, he portrays, in allegory, the injustice that 
had been exercised toward the common people, not only 
by the church, but by the State as well. This book set 
forth the feelings of the people so truly that they eagerly 
caught it up, and it has been thought that the humble 
volume finally played a considerable part in preparing 
the way for the Reformation. A number of years later, 

4 



50 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

Langland wrote another book, called "The Complaint 
of Piers Plowman." This book attacked not only the 
practises of the church but its doctrines, since Langland 
was a friend of Wycliffe, and followed in his wake. 

•29. John Wycliffe. — Wycliffe had a powerful 
mind and great energy of purpose. He was a scholar. 
After taking his degree at Oxford, he lectured there on 
divinity, expressing his anti-Romish views freely. He 
also labored with great zeal in preaching, not on Sun- 
days alone> but on the festival days of the church as well. 
He is said to have been "a most exemplary and un- 
wearied pastor. " His ability was recognized everywhere. 
He was highly appreciated by the king' and court, but 
continued unhesitatingly to expose the corruptions of 
the Church of Rome, and was called upon, time after 
time, to appear before a meeting of the Convocation to 
answer for his bold words against the pope, to whom 
he had applied the term of Antichrist. When he ap- 
peared at the Convocation, he was accompanied by his 
powerful friend, John of Gaunt, and by other men of 
influence. Soon a great tumult began. The citizens of 
London burst into the chapel, and frightened the synod 
of clergy so that they were quite willing to let Wycliffe 
go. Then the ecclesiastics appealed to the pope, who 
issued several bulls, — three addressed to the Archbishop 
of Canterbury and other bishops, one to the king, and 
one to the University of Oxford. These bulls com- 
manded an inquest into the erroneous doctrines of the 
reformer. Again circumstances favored Wycliffe, and he 
escaped without harm. These persecutions made Wyc- 
liffe the more thorough in his efforts at reform. When 



THE AWAKENING. 51 

he attacked the doctrine of transubstantiation, many of 
his most influential friends were alarmed and deserted 
him. When again brought before Convocation, he de- 
fended himself with great ability ; but nothing could 
avail. He was condemned, and orders were issued that 
all his writings should be burned. 

Wycliffe began to see that the only way to enlighten 
the people permanently, and thus free their consciences, 
was to give them the Bible in their own tongue, so that 
they might read and study it for themselves. Conse- 
quently, he undertook the work of translating it, and 
found many willing helpers. There were no printing- 
presses to multiply the copies, but many poor preachers 
were glad to transcribe the different portions as fast as 
they were translated. The people were eager for the 
treasures of truth thus brought within their reach. It 
is said that a poor peasant would gladly give a load of 
hay for a few pages. Wycliffe's strength held out until 
he had completed this noble task. It is hard to realize 
that for a thousand years after Christianity was intro- 
duced into Britain, there was no Bible in the English 
tongue. 

It is interesting to compare the following verses of 
the first chapter of Mark, taken from Wycliffe's trans- 
lation, with the modern version of the same." 

i. The bigynnynge of the gospel of Jhesu Crist, the sone 
of God. 

2. As it is writun in Ysaie, the prophete. Lo ! I send myn 
angel bifore thi face, that schal make thi weye redy before thee. 

3. The voyce of oon cryinge in desert. Make ye redy the weye 
of the Lord, make ye his pathis rihtful. 



* The orthography is very irregular, the same word being often spelled in two or 
more different ways on the same page. 



52 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

4. Jhon was in desert baptisynge, and prechinge the baptym 
of penaunce, into remiscioun of synnes. 

5. And alle men of Jerusalem wenten out to him, and al the 
cuntree of Judee ; and weren baptisid of him in the flood of Jor- 
dan, knowlechinge her synnes. 

6. And John was clothid with heeds of camelis, and a girdil 
of skyn abowte his leendis ; and he eet locusts, and hony of the 
wode and prechide, seyinge : 

7. A strengere than I schal come aftir me, of whom I knel- 
inge am not worthi for to undo, or vnbynde, the thwong of his 
schoon. 

8. I have baptisid you in water ; forsothe he shal baptise 
you in the Holy Goost. 

9. And it is don in thoo dayes, Jhesus came fro Nazareth of 
Galilee, and was baptisid of Joon in Jordan. 

10. And anoon he styinge vp of the water, sayth heuenes 
openyd, and the Holy Goost cummynge doun as a culuere, and 
dwellynge in hym. 

11. And a voys is maad fro heuenes, thou art my scne loued, 
in thee I haue plesid. 

12. And anon the Spirit puttide hym in to desert. 

13. And he was in desert fourty dayes and fourty nightis, 
and was temptid of Sathanas, and was with beestis and angelis 
mynstriden to hym. 

30. Chaucer. — The most polished and versatile 
writer of the fourteenth century was Geoffrey Chaucer. 
His language has been called a well of English undefiled; 
but most people of the present day find his writings hard 
to read. The chief difficulty, however, arises from the 
strange spelling. With no spelling-books or dictionaries, 
and no printing-presses, it is not surprising that the 
spelling was confused and uncertain. The same words 
were spelled in various ways by different writers, and 
often by the same writer. 



THE AWAKENING. 53 

Chaucer had a wide and varied experience in life. 
He was well acquainted with all the pomp and parade of 
courts, both in England and in other countries. He had 
rich and influential connections. He had been sent as 
ambassador by the king to distant lands, and even knew 
by experience the realities of camp life. He was for a 
time a member of Parliament, was in the king's council, 
and married one of the queen's maids of honor, thus be- 
coming brother-in-law to John of Gaunt. Yet he was 
not without his reverses, and knew well the life of the 
common people. Indeed, judging from his writings, he 
was more interested in their customs and manners than 
he was in the ways of people in high life. He seems to 
have been a favorite everywhere, and in his writings 
knew equally well how to please. He had something to 
interest and amuse all classes of society, portraying life 
and character so naturally and so pleasantly as to charm 
nearly every reader. His poems were stories which in 
themselves were of very little account, but incidentally 
they gave a living picture of the people of his day, 
including all classes from highest to lowest. The actors 
pass before you as living realities. You hear them talk, 
you see them smile, you know just how they are dressed, 
you know their spirit and bearing as you do that of your 
friends with whom you daily associate. 

His descriptions of nature are especially impressive. 
You not only see the objects he describes, but you be- 
lieve at once in the sincerity of his love for them. You 
know it to be genuine, and besides, he makes you see as 
he sees, feel as he feels. He was, by far, the greatest 
genius of the age, and as a delineator of life and nature, 



54 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

he scarcely has an equal. There is a kindly feeling run- 
ning through his writings, and they dispose the reader to 
feel kindly toward all. 

But as he has something for all classes, so he has 
something for all tastes, the vulgar as well as the refined. 
While some passages have a delicacy that is exquisite, 
others are. so coarse that we cannot but wish they had 
never been written. His writings did much for the lit- 
erature of his day and for the enlightenment of the peo- 
ple of his time, but there are few who need them for 
present reading. That Chaucer was a genius, a scholar, 
and a pure-minded man, no one can deny; but in his pro- 
ductions are many things that are unprofitable, and some 
things that are offensive. Poets and antiquaries admire 
him, — the one class, for his true, poetic genius; the 
other, for his quaint expressions. Of all his numerous 
writings the "Canterbury Tales!' are generally best 
appreciated and most extensively read. 

31. Mandeviile — Sir John Mandeville said that 
he felt ashamed to lead a life of idleness as so many of 
the knights and nobles were doing, with scarcely a higher 
aim in life than to amuse themselves. He had a strong 
desire to benefit his country; and since most of his coun- 
trymen at that time knew so little about other parts of 
the world and the nations that inhabited them, he deter- 
mined to travel. He visited many lands, mingling with 
the common people as well as with the rulers of the 
nations. He endured hardships, traveled on foot, studied 
the languages as well as the dress and manners of the 
people, heard their legends and their own account of 
themselves, returning at last, after an absence of thirty- 



THE AWAKENING. 55 

four years. When he reached home, but few of his 
friends were alive, and no one knew him. There had 
been great changes since he set forth on his travels. 
His own country had become, like the others, a strange 
land. But he did not relinquish his original purpose. 
He wrote a voluminous account of all his travels and of 
what he had learned during his absence. He first wrote 
in Latin, then in French, then in English, so that all 
classes might read with ease and pleasure. The super- 
stitious narratives that had been told him in different 
lands were readily believed by the English people, espe- 
cially such marvels as pertained to the Holy Land. 
From his experiences he deduced many arguments to 
show that the world is spherical, and not flat, as had 
been supposed. Among other evidences, he brought for- 
ward the fact (now so well known) that, as he traveled 
southward, the north star disappeared from the heavens, 
and the southern cross arose above the horizon at the 
south ; that when he traveled northward again, the 
southern cross sank from sight, and the north star was 
seen again in its usual place. This theory concerning 
the sphericity of the earth no one would believe. Then, 
as now, truth seemed stranger than fiction. Doubts 
have been cast on the genuineness of Mandeville's work. 
This need not disturb us : many are trying to make us 
believe that Shakespeare was not the author of his plays. 
In the words of the International Encyclopedia, " Several 
of his [Mandeville's] statements, once regarded as im- 
probable, have since been verified;" and again, "His 
book is written in a very interesting manner, was 
long exceedingly popular, and was translated into many 
languages." 



56 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

Such a work, though imperfect in many parts, could 
hardly fail to broaden the minds of the majority of Eng- 
lish readers. 

32. The Literature of the Period Adapted 
to the Needs of the People. — The fourteenth cen- 
tury was a time of general awakening of thought, and 
there were many able and interesting writers. In this 
brief outline the aim will be to represent each period by 
the best it produced. Langland, Wycliffe, Chaucer, and 
Mandeville were the representative authors of the cen- 
tury. Gower was an able writer, but his works were in 
Latin. The chief object in presenting these men and 
their productions is to show by what means the English 
people and literature were advanced. It is safe to say 
that the greater part of the people of England could 
not read at the beginning of this century. One cause 
of this ignorance was that they had nothing to read, or 
nothing that they cared to read. It would almost seem 
that the varied gifts and productions that have been 
noticed in this chapter were providential. People who 
were religiously inclined would delight in the works of 
Wycliffe and his fellow laborers. Those who were eager 
to learn about other people and other lands would em- 
brace with avidity the strange accounts given by Mande- 
ville. Those who sought for amusement, and who read 
for a pastime, would find their wants met by the tales of 
Chaucer. Thus it was that the tastes and desires of all 
classes of people were satisfied. Reading became more 
general, knowledge was diffused, the language was greatly 
improved, and intellectual activity was stimulated, 



CHAPTER FIVE. 



From Wycliffe and Chaucer to Milton. 

33. Length of the Period. — This period covers 
a little more than two hundred years, — from the death 
of Chaucer in 1400 to that of Shakespeare in 161 6. The 
representative writers of the fourteenth century were, 
as we have seen, Mandeville, the traveler; Chaucer, the 
poet; and Wycliffe, the defender of truth and translator 
of the Bible. Of these men, Chaucer was the greatest 
genius; Wycliffe, the most successful philanthropist. 
The one wrote to please the people and throw a 
genial light upon the monotony of their life; the other, 
to right their wrongs and enlighten their consciences. 

For nearly two centuries after the writings of these 
men appeared, there was a dearth of anything that could 
claim pre-eminent merit. Yet there does not seem to 
have been, during this interim, a lack of activity in the 
English mind, or of fairly good writers. None of these 
writers, however* gave evidence of great genius, or pro- 
duced anything which had a marked influence upon the 
thought and literature of the age. Toward the close 
of the sixteenth century, the flowers of poesy burst 
forth again with added beauty and unwonted profusion. 
The rapid appearing of literary productions of the 
highest class was like the blooming of the century- 
plant, which has for a hundred years been gathering 
force for a supreme effort, 

157] 



58 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

34k Men of the Period. — The prominent actors 
during this period were many. But the work of a few 
may indicate sufficiently well for our present purpose the 
work of all. Among the representative men of this 
period were Caxton, the printer; Tyndale, the trans- 
lator; Spenser, the allegorical poet; Shakespeare, the 
dramatist; Bacon, the philosopher; and Hooker, the 
theologian. 

35. Language Improving in Euphony,, — The 

writings of Chaucer were much more euphonious than 
anything which had been hitherto produced. Just before 
his time, there had been a remarkable awakening of 
genius in Italy. The writings of Dante, Petrarch, and 
Boccacio had raised the Italian literature above that of 
any other language. The Italian people were showing 
their love of freedom by their efforts at independence, 
and their refined taste by their advances in architecture 
and other works of art. A similar awakening was felt 
to a greater or less extent throughout Europe. Chaucer 
was acquainted with the Italian poets, and their influence 
can be detected in his verse. The English poets that 
succeeded Chaucer were devoted admirers of his style, 
and imitated him; but they, also, felt the direct effects 
of Italian refinement, and thus poetry steadily improved 
in ease and grace of expression. 

36. The PrintingoPresSc — The art of printing 
was invented and carried into effect on the Continent 
about the middle of the fifteenth century. The first 
printing in England was done by William Caxton, who 
set up his press and printed his first book in 1474. 



FROM WYCLIFFE AND CHAUCER TO MILTON. 59 

During the next sixteen or seventeen years, he printed 
sixty-four books, mostly in English, though some of 
them were translations. Many of the translations were 
made by Caxton himself. It is easy to see that the 
use of the printing-press would give a remarkable im- 
petus to literary production, and that by this speedy 
method of multiplying copies of books, they would be 
much more widely disseminated among the people; that 
reading would become more general; and that this freer 
interchange of ideas would stimulate thought and action 
throughout the kingdom. 

37. Translations. — Translations were also en- 
couraged by the use of the printing-press. Printed 
copies of the Latin version of the Bible — the one 
known as the Vulgate — were greatly multiplied, as 
many as eighty editions being turned out in less than 
forty years. There was then a very wide-spread effort 
to correct the errors found in that version, and to pro- 
duce other versions that should be more true to the 
original text in which the Bible had been written. 
But all this did not give the Scriptures to the millions 
of people who could not read Latin. In order to meet 
this great need of the common people, men of piety 
and learning set to work to translate the Bible into 
their native languages. 

38. Tyndale and Luther. — Among the most 
successful of these translators were Martin Luther and 
William Tyndale. Their translations were printed 
about the same time, — Luther's in German, and Tyn- 
dale's in English. Luther is known the world over as 



60 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

the Great Reformer ; but Tyndale was as earnest a 
reformer as Luther or any other man could be. 

At this time, Henry VIII reigned in England. Al- 
though one of the coarsest and most corrupt of mon- 
archs, he made a great show of religious zeal, doing all 
he could to aid the priesthood in tyrannizing over the 
consciences of men. When it was known that Tyndale 
had begun to translate the Bible into English, he had 
to flee to Holland to save his life. There he continued 
his work ; but his persecutors did not lose sight of him. 
At last he was treacherously betrayed into the hands 
of the officers who were searching for him. After being 
kept a long time in prison, he was condemned as a here- 
tic, strangled, and burned at the stake. 

39. Tyndale's Translation. — A new translation 
of the Bible had become necessary because the lan- 
guage had so changed since the time of Wycliffe as to 
make his version almost unintelligible. Tyndale was 
well qualified for the important work which he under- 
took. He was a man of talent and learning. His 
translations, as well as the other writings which he pro- 
duced, were remarkably pure and simple in expression. 
His style was clear and energetic. All critics admire 
the excellence of his works. Our modern version of the 
New Testament is substantially Tyndale's translation 
with modernized spelling. Scarcely any other writer 
has done so much to establish pure diction and terse 
idioms ; and when, after persecution had ceased, the 
Bible in these beautiful words came to be read all over 
England, it may be readily seen what an influence it 
would have upon the language of the people. The 



FROM WYCLIFFE AND CHAUCER TO MILTON. 61 

direct and often exquisite wording of the Bible has 
helped to maintain the strength of English speech down 
to the present day, insomuch that one of our most 
eloquent statesmen has said that one's language can 
scarcely become weak as long as he is a daily reader 
of his Bible. 

40. Sidney and Spenser. — Mainly, perhaps, 
through the practise of Southern poets and the fashion 
of Southern courts, it had come to be thought that love 
was the only proper theme for the poet's effusions. But 
during the latter part of the sixteenth century our litera- 
ture was graced by the writings of two men of pure 
and noble character, — Sir Philip Sidney and Edmund 
Spenser. It was the aim of these writers to broaden the 
field of poetry, and elevate it above the excessive senti- 
mentality that had stood in the way of the ennobling 
effects incident to true poetry. While keeping hold of 
the popular taste with the one hand, they pointed with 
the other to more substantial themes. Instead of nar- 
rowing the range of a noble sentiment to deifying the 
personal charms of some perishable human creature, 
at whose shrine all devotees must worship, they sought 
to exalt those virtues which endure forever. 

Sidney died early ; but Spenser remained to write 
one of the most remarkable poems in our language. 

41. Plan of Spenser's Great Poem. — His plan 
was to extol what he called the twelve cardinal virtues, 
devoting a book to each. For the defense and further- 
ance of each of these virtues, the Queen of Fairyland 
appointed a knight who was to go forth and battle 



62 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

against all its foes. The poem was called the " Faerie 
Queen." First, there was the Red Cross Knight, the 
champion of Holiness, accompanied by Una, the repre- 
sentative of true Religion. Next comes Sir Guyon, the 
champion of Temperance, and after him Britomartis, the 
female champion of Chastity. Each of the twelve 
books was to be divided into twelve cantos. The plan 
was broad, but the author lived to complete only six 
books. 

42. Character of the Work. — Critics vary 
greatly in their estimates of this poem. With reference 
to it, Southey says of its author, "I love him in my 
heart of hearts." Hallam thinks that Spenser should 
be ranked next to Shakespeare and Milton, among our 
great poets. He shows in the "Faerie Queen" a 
"brilliant imagination, a fertile invention, and a flowing 
rhythm." His motive is pure, and his language chaste. 
A higher aim could scarcely be conceived. The whole 
poem was intended as an allegory representing the 
efforts of a Christian to perfect his character and make 
his way heavenward. The name of the Faerie Queen 
is Gloriana, and means, when freed from the allegory, 
the "Glory of God." Arthur, the great prince, is the 
perfection of all virtues, — an emblem of a perfect man. 
He is the one who by power divine helps all the knights 
out of their troubles when they find themselves overcome 
by their foes and realize their own insufficiency. While 
some read the poem with ever-increasing delight, others 
find it tedious, and relinquish it after reading a few 
cantos. The modern reader cannot but regret that the 
author should have felt compelled by the prevailing 



FROM WYCLIFFE AND CHAUCER TO MILTON*. 63 

tastes of his day to call in the aid of knight-errantry, 
and the magic and mystery of a fairyland. The poem 
was written for its age, and was valuable as the greatest 
single production, which, up to that time, had been 
written in the English language. 

43. Tendency to Scenic Representation. — 

Spenser's "Faerie Queen" was a scenic representation 
of the contest between right and wrong; truth being 
arrayed against error, temperance against excess, chas- 
tity against lewdness, purity against corruption. This 
was in keeping with a tendency, long manifest, to 
realize abstract truth and moral principles. In order to 
give reality to the events of Scripture narrative, the 
church had employed "miracle plays," in which priests 
and choristers were the actors. Then followed the 
"moral plays," in which the virtues were, by scenic 
representation, exemplified as they would appear in 
actual exercise ; but the actors were no longer confined 
to persons in sacred office, and it is to be feared that 
some of them were degenerate. Among these plays 
were some that required a number of successive days 
for their performance. 

Spenser chose his own actors, took them into a land 
created by his own imagination, gave them an allegor- 
ical setting, and made them body forth his own ideal of 
a noble life. 

44. The Drama. — But while Spenser's great alle- 
gorical play was complete only in his own imagination, 
genius and intellect were devoting their energies to the 
scenic exhibition of the passions. Play-writers and 



64 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

play-actors were multiplied to excess, and theater- 
going became the leading amusement in the fashionable 
world at the very time when the Reformation was 
bearing its fruits in the religious world. 

45. Influence of the Drama, — The drama dwelt 
upon the extremes of passion. The effort was either to 
freeze with terror or convulse with merriment. Every- 
thing had to be tragic or comic ; at least this was the 
prevailing tendency. Hence the drama gave a distorted 
view of life. Its ideals scarcely touched the ordinary 
conditions and needs of society ; hence it could not 
instruct in any proper sense. It served to amuse ; but 
the amusement was not healthy, since it was of a 
nature to make the common occupations of life appear 
dull, and ordinary joys insipid. It created a feeling of 
unrest, instead of teaching how to find poetry, beauty, 
and enjoyment in our daily environments. 

But it was on the actors that the worst effects were 
seen. The alternations from the intensity required in 
acting to the complete relaxation that followed, seemed 
to unbalance them. The most of them acquired habits 
of dissipation, lived in miserable quarters, and died 
under unenviable conditions. 

46. Effects upon the Language. — The lan- 
guage was much improved in strength and versatility 
by the demands of the drama. The vivacity or inten- 
sity of the action, the great variety of characters to 
be represented, and the wide range of passions and 
emotions that had to be shadowed forth, — all these 
called for terse expression, pointed words, and an exten- 
sive vocabulary. 



FROM WYCLIFFE AND CHAUCER TO MILTON. 65 

4t7. Dramatic Writers. — The dramatic writers 
of this period were many of them possessed of rare 
genius. They have been compared to a galaxy of 
bright stars, with Shakespeare as a central sun. 
These men were not generally self-seeking. Their aim 
seemed to be to perfect the drama, rather than to 
acquire fame or riches for themselves. Two or more of 
these writers often joined hands in writing a play ; and 
so well did they blend their individuality and their style 
that critics have been unable to tell which portions of 
the play were written by one author, and which by the 
other. 

Many of these play-writers were men of passion 
rather than principle. They had generous impulses, 
but lacked self-control. Others were men of good 
standing, great scholarship, and firm character. Shake- 
speare seems to have been benefited by his deep study 
of human nature, despite the questionable influence of 
a theater, with which he was in close contact for many 
years. He entered London a wayward youth, without 
money, and without influence to aid him ; he retired 
with an honest competence, became a magistrate, and 
set to work to found an ancestral home for his posterity. 
He did not seem to value his writings enough to preserve 
them ; but they were gathered up by others, and have 
been regarded by many as being among the most 
precious treasures of our literature. They abound in 
passages of the gravest wisdom, the purest motives, 
the most delicate appreciation of honor, the tenderest 
feeling, the tersest and aptest expression ; but owing 
to the customs of the times and the practises of the 
stage, they contain relics of a coarseness too vulgar for 
5 



66 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

a refined taste, and unfit for indiscriminate reading. 
They are a most perfect mirror of human nature in all 
its phases, but some of those phases would better be 
forgotten than studied. 

48. Francis Bacon. — The greatest philosopher 
of the period, and among the greatest of any age, was 
Francis Bacon. The powers of his mind seemed almost 
supernatural ; but like Spenser he undertook more than 
he could accomplish, and, like him, left a great work 
unfinished. He set forth in the clearest manner the 
merits and principles of the inductive method of philoso- 
phy. He believed that truth should be derived from 
the study of nature, rather than from abstract reason- 
ing, and showed how to make the study of nature 
profitable. Men should approach nature as humble 
inquirers and learners, not as seekers for something 
to confirm their own theories. He made many experi- 
ments himself, and taught the proper method for 
conducting experiments. He believed that human 
nature also should be learned by studying its mani- 
festations. 

He showed that philosophers, though able men, 
had been for hundreds of years turning their attention 
in the wrong direction. They had been using methods 
of investigation which could result in nothing but 
doubt and speculation. He says, " Men have sought to 
make a world from their own conceptions, and to draw 
from their own minds all the materials which they 
employed; but if, instead of doing so, they had con- 
sulted experience and observation, they would have 
had facts, and not opinions, to reason about, and might 



FROM WYCLIFFE AND CHAUCER TO MILTON. 6? 

have ultimately arrived at the knowledge of the laws 
which govern the material world." 

In speaking of right methods of investigation, he 
wisely says, ' ' It requires that we should generalize 
slowly, going from particular things to those which are 
but one step more general ; from those to others of still 
greater extent, and so on to such as are universal. By 
such means, we may hope to arrive at principles, not 
vague and obscure, but luminous and well-defined, — 
such as Nature herself will not refuse to acknowledge." 

If Bacon had been less in public life, he might 
have done more for philosophy and science ; but he 
coveted wealth and rank as a means of making his 
philosophy popular. His writings have awakened 
thought and done much good: "He turned the 
attention of philosophers from speculations and dis- 
putes upon questions remote from use, and fixed it 
upon inquiries ' productive of works for the benefit of 
the life of man.' " 

But we do not need to go back to them now, since 
all their good teachings have been retained and im- 
proved upon by more modern writers. 

49. Richard Hooker. — This great and good man 

is said to have been ' ' one of the most distinguished 
prose-writers of this period." He was great in that he 
possessed the meekness which characterized the Savior 
of men, and good in that he labored so earnestly not 
only to benefit his flock, but all mankind as well. 

At school, Hooker was noted for his kind disposi- 
tion, and for the ease with which he mastered his 
studies. At the university, he showed an increasing 



68 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

love for his work, and achieved a marked success; and 
the records say that he ' ' became much respected for 
modesty, prudence, and piety." 

Hooker was a man of superior learning and intellect. 
Having taken orders, his merits as a preacher became so 
great that he was appointed Master of the Temple in 
London. Here he acquitted himself with honor ; but he 
became weary of the strife and turmoil of the city, 
and begged to be removed to some quiet parsonage 
"where," to use his own words, "I may see God's 
blessings spring out of my mother-earth, and eat my 
own bread in peace and privacy." 

His request was granted, and he found time, in his 
retirement, to write much. Although his writings 
were mostly on Ecclesiastical Polity, they are inter- 
esting as masterpieces of reasoning and eloquence. 
Mr. Hallam, who is noted as a just, as well as an able, 
critic, says of Hooker's language, " So stately and grace- 
ful is the march of his periods, so various the fall of 
his musical cadences upon the ear, so rich in images, so 
condensed in sentences, so grave and noble his diction, 
so little is there of vulgarity in his racy idiom, of ped- 
antry in his learned phrase, that I know not whether 
any later writer has more admirably displayed the ca- 
pacities of our language, or produced passages more 
worthy of comparison with the splendid monuments of 
antiquity." 

To the modern reader, many of the sentences of 
this grand old writer appear too long and too much 
involved. His reasoning, also, is very close, and re- 
quires the most attentive perusal in order to be pleas- 



FROM WYCLIFFE AND CHAUCER TO MILTON. 69 

ant or profitable. The following short paragraph is 
quoted from his reasoning on " The Nature and Majesty 
of Law : " — 

Of law there can be no less acknowledged than that her seat 
is the bosom of God ; her voice, the harmony of the world. All 
things in heaven and earth do her homage ; the very least as 
feeling her care, and the greatest as not exempted from her 
power ; both angels and men, and creatures of what condition 
soever, though each in different sort and manner, yet all with 
uniform consent, admiring her as the mother of their peace 
and joy. 



CHAPTER SIX 



Literature of the Seventeenth Century. 

50. General Character. — Toward the close of 
the sixteenth century and at the beginning of the seven- 
teenth, the drama monopolized the genius of the nation ; 
but later on, religion, metaphysics, and philosophy 
gained the ascendency. 

The drama lost its dignity, especially under the 
influence of the frivolous court of Charles II. Shake- 
speare and his associates tried to portray nature faith- 
fully, but the later drama ran into extravagances. It 
lost sight of the nobler aims of the older drama, and 
at the same time exaggerated its faults. The idlers 
and pleasure-seekers followed the example of the court 
and the corrupt drama. Especially was this true after 
the austere rule of Cromwell had come to an end, and 
the monarchy was reinstated. 

With the more sober-minded, however, the relig- 
ious sentiment was strong, and called forth some of the 
grandest sermons and profoundest treatises that have 
ever enriched the English language. It also gave us the 
greatest religious epic that the world has ever known. 

51. The Writers of the Period. — The authors 
of this period were numerous, and many of them were 
worthy. In poetry John Milton and John Dryden were 
clearly pre-eminent ; but among prose-writers it is not 

[70] 



LITERATURE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 71 

so easy to choose. The names and works referred to 
in this chapter must be taken merely as examples given 
to show the trend of thought and style of language 
then prevailing. 

52. Order of Presentation. — The prose-wri- 
tings of this period are so important that they will be 
noticed first, especially since they better connect with 
the last topic of the preceding chapter. 

53. Chillingworth. — Among the earliest of these 
writers was William Chillingworth, who died in 1644, 
at the age of forty-two years. Though an able man, he 
was so distrustful of his own judgment that he allowed 
himself to be persuaded to turn from a Protestant to a 
Catholic, and then from a Catholic, to a Protestant. 
When writing to a Catholic, he referred to his incon- 
staney of faith as follows: — 

I know a man, that of a moderate Protestant turned a Pa- 
pist, and the day that he did so, was convicted in conscience that 
his yesterday's opinion was an error. The same man afterward, 
upon better consideration, became a doubting Papist, and of a 
doubting Papist a confirmed Protestant. And yet this man thinks 
himself no more to blame for all these changes than a traveler 
who, using all diligence to find the right way to some remote city, 
did yet mistake it, and after find his error and amend it. 

Lord Clarendon, who was intimately acquainted with 
Chillingworth, says of him, that he was of so rare a tem- 
per in debate, that it was impossible to provoke him into 
any passion. 

He became a very firm defender of the Protestant 
faith, and his greatest work was entitled ' l The Religion 
of the Protestants a Safe Wav to Salvation." In this 



72 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

work he maintains that the Scripture is the only rule 
to which appeal ought to be made in theological dis- 
putes, and that no church is infallible. With reference 
to using force in matters of conscience, he says, — 

I have learned from the ancient Fathers of the church, that 
nothing is more against religion than to force religion ; and of 
St. Paul [that] , the weapons of the Christian warfare are not car- 
nal. And great reason ; for human violence may make men coun- 
terfeit, but cannot make them believe, and is therefore fit for 
nothing but to breed form without and atheism within. 

In defense of the use of reason in determining one's 
religious belief, he uses the following words : — 

But you that would not have men follow their reason, what 
would you have them follow ? their passions, or pluck out their 
eyes, and go blindfold ? No, you say; you would have them fol- 
low authority. In God's name, let them; we also would have 
them follow authority; for it is upon the authority of universal 
tradition that we would have them believe Scripture. But then, 
as for the authority which you would have them follow, you will 
let them see reason why they should follow it. 

The following selection affords a fine illustration 
of irony. He is showing the folly and wickedness 
of dueling : — 

If thy brother or thy neighbor have offered thee an injury, or 
an affront, forgive him? By no means; thou art utterly undone, 
and lost in reputation with the world, if thou dost forgive him. 
What is to be done, then? Why, let not thy heart take rest, 
let all other business and employment be laid aside, till thou hast 
his blood. How ! A man's blood for an injurious, passionate 
speech — for a disdainful look? Nay, that is not all: that thou 
mayest gain among men the reputation of a discreet, well-tem- 
pered murderer, be sure thou killest him not in passion, when thy 
blood is hot and boiling with the provocation; but proceed with 
as great temper and settledness of reason, with as much dis- 



LITERATURE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 73 

cretion and preparedness, as thou wouldst to the communion : 
after several days' respite, that it may appear it is thy reason 
guides thee, and not thy passion, invite him kindly and courte- 
ously into some retired place, and there let it be determined 
whether his blood or thine shall satisfy the injury. 

These brief selections will give some notion of 
the trend of this author's thought and of his style of 
composition. 

54. Jeremy Taylor. — Of all the eminent relig- 
ious teachers of his time, Jeremy Taylor was the most 
eloquent and imaginative. He may be fitly termed a 
prose-poet. His illustrations are profuse, and abound 
in figurative expressions. His imagination is so quick 
and fruitful, that, whichever way he turns, or whatever 
truth he would set forth, images crowd upon him until 
he can scarcely find room for them. From this cause, 
they often crowd upon one another in his writing until 
his sentences become intolerably long, and propriety and 
precision are made to suffer not a little. Yet he mostly 
deals in what is natural and familiar, giving his hearers 
illustrations from familiar objects of nature, such as 
birds, trees, flowers, morning beauties, sunset skies, run- 
ning streams, placid lakes, the sweetness and innocence 
of childhood, the felicity of domestic peace. 

His love of Nature is so great that he never forgets 
her, and her abundant stores are so familiar to him that 
he readily finds enough to draw from on all occasions. 
He is continually surprising his readers with new and 
quaint, yet beautiful, conceptions. He writes as an 
orator would speak; and as you peruse his writings, 
you do not realize that you are reading, but seem to 
hear him talking to you. 



74 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

The few selections for which there is room here, 
can give but a faint idea of the versatility and richness 
of his style. 

In speaking of domestic felicity, he says, — 

No man can tell, but he that loves his children, how many 
delicious accents make a man's heart dance in the pretty conver- 
sation of those dear pledges; their childishness, their stammer- 
ing, their little angers, their innocence, their imperfections, their 
necessities, are so many little emanations of joy and comfort to 
him that delights in their persons and society. 

In illustration of the progress of sin, he gives the 
following : — 

I have seen the little purls of a spring sweat through the 
bottom of a bank, and intenerate the stubborn pavement, till it 
hath made it fit for the impression of a child's foot; and it was 
despised, like the descending pearls of a misty morning, till it had 
opened its way and made a stream large enough to carry away 
the ruins of the undermined strand, and to invade the neigh- 
boring gardens: but then the despised drops were grown into an 
artificial river, and an intolerable mischief. So are the first en- 
trances of sin stopped with the antidotes of a hearty prayer, and 
checked into sobriety by the eye of a reverend man, or the coun- 
sels of a single sermon: but when such beginnings are neglected, 
and our religion hath not in it so much philosophy as to think 
anything evil as long as we can endure it, they grow up to ulcers 
and pestilential evils; they destroy the soul by their abode, who 
at their first entry might have been killed with the pressure of a 
little finger. 

In giving advice concerning profitable studies, he 
has this paragraph : — 

Spend not your time in that which profits not; for your labor 
and your health, your time and your "studies, are very valuable; 
and it is a thousand pities to see a diligent and hopeful person 
spend himself in gathering cockle-shells and little pebbles, in tell- 



LITERATURE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 75 

ing sands upon the shores, and making garlands of useless daisies. 
Study that which is profitable, that which will make you useful 
to churches and commonwealths, that which will make you desir- 
able and wise. Only I shall add this to you, that in learning 
there are variety of things as well as in religion: there is mint 
and cummin, and there are the weighty things of law; so there 
are studies more and less useful, and everything that is useful 
will be required in its time : and I may in this also use the words 
of our blessed Savior, " These things ought you to look after, and 
not to leave the other unregarded." But your great care is to be 
in the things of God and of religion, in holiness and true wisdom, 
remembering the saying of Origen, — That the knowledge that 
arises from goodness is something that is more certain and more 
divine than all demonstrations, — than all other learnings of the 
world. 

55. John Milton as a Prose-Writer. — Milton, 
the poet, was also a powerful prose-writer. His prose 
productions were mostly on political subjects. He 
strongly advocated freedom of the press, regarding it as 
a good fortune for error to unmask itself, so that it might 
be met in open combat. He had unbounded confidence 
in the power of truth to defend itself. He said, — 

Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon 
the earth, so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously (by licens- 
ing and prohibiting) to misdoubt her strength. Let her and False- 
hood grapple ; who ever knew Truth put to the worse in a free 
and open encounter ? Her [Falsehood's] confuting is the best 
and surest suppressing. 

And again, — 

For who knows not that Truth is strong, next to the Almighty ? 
She needs no policies, no strategems, no licensings, to make her 
victorious ; those are the shifts and the defenses that Error uses 
against her [Truth's] power; give her [Truth] but room, and do 
not bind her when she sleeps. 



78 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

utter, and the expressions you intend to use, that they may be 
significant, pertinent, and inoffensive. Inconsiderate persons do 
not think till they speak ; or they speak, and then think. 

57. Isaac Barrow. — Among the greatest reason- 
ers and most eloquent preachers of his time was Isaac 
Barrow. He was a thorough scholar, proficient in 
mathematics and the natural sciences, as well as in 
ancient literature. He was also a traveler ; and was 
thus fitted both by education and by experience to take 
a broad view of life. His eloquence consisted in the 
depth and clearness of his reasoning, rather than in 
flights of fancy or flowers of imagination. His language 
is almost destitute of illustration or ornamentation, the 
interest of the reader being kept up by a certain rich- 
ness and profusion of thought. His reasoning has an 
accumulative force which cannot be shown by brief 
extracts, but the following will enable the reader to form 
a notion of the style of one who has by sheer force of 
reasoning and plain appeal interested thoughtful readers 
for more than two centuries. In contrasting concord 
and discord he says, — 

How delicious that conversation is which is accompanied with 
mutual confidence, freedom, courtesy, and complaisance! How 
calm the mind, how composed the affections, how serene the 
countenance, how melodious the voice, how sweet the sleep, how 
contentful the whole life is of him that neither deviseth mischief 
against others nor suspects any to be contrived against himself! 
And contrariwise, how ungrateful and loathsome a thing it is to 
abide in a state of enmity, wrath, dissension, — having the thoughts" 
distracted with solicitous care, anxious suspicion, envious regret ; 
the heart boiling with choler, the face overclouded with discon- 
tent, the tongue jarring and out of tune, the ears filled with dis- 
cordant noises of contradiction, clamor, and reproach ; the whole 



LITERATURE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 79 

frame of body and soul distempered and disturbed with the worst 
of passions ! . . . How much a peaceful state resembles heaven, 
into which neither complaint, pain, nor clamor do ever enter ; but 
blessed souls converse together in perfect love, and in perpetual 
concord ; and how a condition of enmity represents the state of 
hell, that black and dismal region of dark hatred, fiery wrath, and 
horrible tumult. How like a paradise the world would be, flour- 
ishing in joy and rest, if men would cheerfully conspire in affec- 
tion, and helpfully contribute to each other's content; and how 
like a savage wilderness now it is, when, like wild beasts, they vex 
and persecute, worry and devour, each other. How not only 
philosophy hath placed the supreme pitch of happiness in a calm- 
ness of mind and tranquillity of life, void of care and trouble, of 
irregular passions and perturbations ; but that Holy Scripture 
itself, in that one term of peace, most usually comprehends all 
joy and content, all felicity and prosperity : so that the heavenly 
consort of angels, when they agree most highly to bless, and to 
wish the greatest happiness to mankind, could not better express 
their sense than by saying, "Be on earth peace, and good-will 
among men." 

In discoursing on industry, he has this paragraph : — 

It is with us as with other things in nature, which by motion 
are preserved in their native purity and perfection, in their sweet- 
ness, in their luster ; rest corrupting, debasing, and defiling them. 
If the water runneth, it holdeth clear, sweet, and fresh ; but 
stagnation turneth it into a noisome puddle : if the air be fanned 
by winds, it is pure and wholesome ; but from being shut up, it 
groweth thick and putrid : if metals be employed, they abide 
smooth and splendid ; but lay them up, and they soon contract 
rust : if the earth be belabored with culture, it yieldeth corn ; 
but lying neglected, it will be overgrown with brakes and this- 
tles ; and the better its soil is, the ranker weeds it will produce. 
All nature is upheld in its being, order, and state by constant 
agitation : every creature is incessantly employed in action com- 
fortable to its designed end and use. In like manner, the pres- 
ervation and improvement of our faculties depend on their con- 
stant exercise. 



80 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

58. Izaak Walton. — It is not well to pass unno- 
ticed the sweet effusions of a man who has shown more 
genius, and more of the spirit of a true poet, in wri- 
ting a little prose book on angling, than many a rimer 
has shown in ponderous works of verse. The talk 
about angling seems to be a pretext for taking his read- 
ers to the quiet haunts of nature, and there opening their 
eyes to the beauties which God has created, and to his 
goodness toward the children of men. No man ever 
had a heart more open to the charms of nature, or 
more grateful to Him "from whom all blessings flow." 
His language is simple and artless, like the man who 
wrote it ; but, like him, it is full of sweetness, and of a 
wisdom that issues from a purer fount than do the selfish 
maxims so common among men. It is true that some 
of his instructions in the art of angling savor of cruelty 
to the very creatures that he should love ; but this only 
proves him human, and we can spread the mantle of 
charity over these blemishes, while we enjoy the feast 
of pure sentiments which he has prepared for us. 

Walton wrote many other works, mostly biographies 
of eminent men, some of whom he had personally 
known during his long life of ninety years. In all his 
writings he showed a generous spirit, a just apprecia- 
tion, and a firm adherence to truth. The extracts 
given below give a hint of his style.' 

And first the Lark, when she means to rejoice, to cheer herself 
and those that hear her, she then quits the earth and sings as she 
ascends higher into the air ; and, having ended her heavenly em- 
ployment, grows then mute and sad to think she must descend to 
the dull earth, which she would not touch but for necessity. 

How do the Blackbird and Thrassel with their melodious 



LITERATURE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 81 

voices bid welcome to the cheerful spring, and in their fixed 
mouths warble forth such ditties as no art or instrument can 
reach to ! 

Nay, the smaller birds also do the like in their particular 
seasons, as, namely, the Laverock, the Titlark, the little. Linnet, 
and the honest Robin, that loves mankind both alive and dead. 

But the Nightingale, another of my airy creatures, breathes 
such sweet loud music out of her Httle instrumental throat, that 
it might make mankind to think miracles are not ceased. He 
that at midnight, when the very laborer sleeps securely, should 
hear, as I have very often, the clear airs, the sweet descants, the 
natural rising and falling, the doubling and redoubling of her 
voice, might well be lifted above earth, and say, "Lord, what 
music hast thou provided for the saints in heaven, when thou 
affordest bad men such music on earth ! " 



What would a blind man give to see the pleasant rivers, and 
meadows, and flowers, and fountains, that we have met with 
since we met together ? I have been told, that if a man that 
was born blind could obtain to have his sight for but only one 
hour during his whole life, and should, at the first opening of 
his eyes, fix his sight upon the sun when it was in its full glory, 
either at the rising or setting of it, he would be so transported 
and amazed, and so admire the glory of it, that he would not 
willingly turn his eyes from that first ravishing object, to behold 
all the other various beauties this world could present to him. 
And this, and many other like blessings, we enjoy daily. And 
for most of them, because they be so common, most men forget 
to pay their praises ; but let not us ; because it is a sacrifice so 
pleasing to him that made that sun, and us, and still protects us, 
and gives us flowers, and showers, and stomachs, and meat, and 
content, and leisure to go a-fishing. 



When I would beget content, and increase confidence in the 

power and wisdom and providence of Almighty God, I will walk 

the meadows by some gliding stream, and there contemplate the 

lilies that take no care, and those very many other various little 

6 



82 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

living creatures, that are not only created, but fed, man knows 
not how, by the goodness of the God of nature, and therefore 
trust in him. This is my purpose; and so, "Let everything 
that hath breath praise the Lord : " and let the blessing of 
St. Peter's Master be with mine. 

59. John Bunyan. — This remarkable man was 
the son of a pooPTinker. His educational advantages 
were barely sufficient to teach him how to read and 
write ; yet he produced one of the most wonderful books 
ever printed. The book is known as ' ' Pilgrim's Prog- 
ress, " and has been read by almost every one, having 
been translated into nearly every language of Europe. 
It was written in prison, where Bunyan was kept for 
about twelve years, not for any crime, except the preach- 
ing of what he believed to be the true doctrines of the 
Bible. While in prison, he worked industriously at 
making a kind of lace tags. This he was obliged to do 
in order to keep his wife and children from want ; so he 
could write only a little at a time, during spare moments. 

At last the work was finished. " He had no assist- 
ance. Nobody but himself saw a line till the whole was 
complete. He then consulted his pious friends. Some 
were pleased. Others were much scandalized. It was a 
vain story, — a mere romance about giants, and lions, 
and hobgoblins, and warriors, sometimes fighting with 
monsters, and sometimes regaled by fair ladies in stately 
palaces. . . . Did it become a minister of the gospel to 
copy the evil fashions of the world ?" * 

But Bunyan's purpose could not be thwarted by such 
opposition. The book was printed, and to quote from 
Macaulay again, — "'Pilgrim's Progress' stole silently 

* Macaulay. 



LITERATURE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 83 

into the world. Not a single copy of the first edition is 
known to be in existence. The year of publication has 
not been ascertained. It is probable that, during some 
months, the little volume circulated only among poor 
and obscure sectaries. But soon the irresistible charm 
of a book which gratified the imagination of the reader 
with all the action and scenery of a fairy tale ; which 
exercised his ingenuity by setting him to discover a mul- 
titude of curious analogies ; which interested his feelings 
for human beings, frail like himself, and struggling with 
temptations from within and from without ; which every 
moment drew a smile from him by some stroke of quaint 
yet simple pleasantry, and nevertheless left on his mind 
a sentiment of reverence for God, and of sympathy for 
man, — began to produce its effect." 

Unlettered as Bunyan was, critics have been com- 
pelled to grant him a place among the foremost writers of 
his age. He wrote a number of books, all of them good; 
but "Pilgrim's Progress" is the best. As an allegory 
it has never been equaled. Bunyan, though denied the 
advantages of schools, and the refining influence of pol- 
ished society, had received the training that best fitted 
him for his work. He had been educated in the school 
of adversity. He knew the wants of the great mass of 
uncultured working people, and could sympathize with 
them from experience. His soul had been tried in the 
furnace of affliction. He had learned where to find the 
true source of strength and comfort. His Bible was so 
familiar to him that he could almost have produced it 
from memory. 

If that language is most excellent which serves its 
purpose best, Bunyan's is pre-eminently good. Some 



84 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

have called it homespun. It certainly wears well, is 
strong in homely Saxon words, and has all the direct- 
ness of Scripture phraseology. It was the expression 
of a soul that loved the souls of all men. It was to the 
people, and for the people, and has reached the hearts 
of the people from that day to this. Henry Morley 
says that ' ' In simple, direct phrase, with his heart in 
every line, he clothed in visible forms that code of relig- 
ious faith and duty which an earnest mind, unguided by 
traditions, drew with his own simple strength out of the 
Bible." Many have marveled at Bunyan's gift of expres- 
sion, but in the words of Thomas B. Shaw, ' ' We must 
not forget the immense command which Bunyan had 
over the whole vast store of Scripture language and 
imagery. He was emphatically a man of one book, a 
circumstance which was of itself almost sufficient to give 
his mind and productions a stamp of sincerity, original- 
ity, and force. He was a man of one book, and that 
book was the best. " 

"Pilgrim's Progress" is so universally distributed 
among the people that any description of its theme is 
unnecessary, and for the same reason no extracts from 
it are needed to show the author's style. 

60. Richard Baxter. — This able preacher and 
voluminous writer was a man of great earnestness and 
unwavering courage. He was delicate in health, and 
often prostrated by sickness ; yet he seemed to be almost 
superhuman in the amount of labor which he performed. 
He preached much, took the most assiduous care of sev- 
eral churches, lived in the most troublous times, and yet 
found it possible to write one hundred and sixty-eight 



LITERATURE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 85 

books, many of them works of considerable size. He 
says that it was the necessities constantly arising, to- 
gether with the importunity of friends, that urged him 
to write so rapidly, and he regrets the want of time to 
compose more carefully. Although printed without re- 
vision, his writings are so energetic, so fearless, ,so 
earnest, that we forget blemishes in style, and even 
pass leniently over some of his extreme views. 

His "Saints' Everlasting Rest," which is the one of 
all his works most read at the present time, was written 
during a sickness that kept him from his usual labors. 
The greater part of his writings were of a religious char- 
acter, but he wrote a very instructive narrative of the 
most important events of his life and times. This book 
was much liked by Dr. Johnson. 

Whatever errors of doctrine Baxter may have held, 
no one can doubt his sincerity. His honesty and truth- 
fulness stood out in bold contrast with the dissimulation 
so common in his day. Coleridge said that he would 
almost as soon doubt the verity of the Gospels as the 
veracity of Baxter. The courage of the man was as re- 
markable as his honesty. Through persecutions, insults, 
fines, and imprisonments, he labored on without resent- 
ment to the end. When tried before the infamous 
Judge Jeffreys, for the crime of writing a paraphrase of 
the New Testament, he attempted to speak in self- 
defense ; but was instantly interrupted by the judge, 
who said, "Richard! Richard! dost thou think we'll 
hear thee poison the court ? Richard, thou art an old 
fellow — an old knave ; thou hast written books enough 
to load a cart. Hadst thou been whipped out of thy 
writing trade forty years ago, it had been happy." 



86 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

BAXTER ON THEOLOGICAL CONTROVERSIES. 

My mind being these many years immersed in studies of this 
nature, and having also long wearied myself in searching what 
fathers and schoolmen have said of such things before us, and 
my genius abhorring confusion and equivocals, I came, by many 
years' longer study, to perceive that most of the doctrinal contro- 
versies among Protestants are far more about equivocal words 
than matter ; and it wounded my soul to perceive what work both 
tyrannical and unskilful disputing clergymen had made these thir- 
teen hundred years in the world ! Experience, since the year 
1643, .till this year, 1675, hath loudly called me to repent of my 
own prejudices, sidings, and censurings of causes and persons not 
understood, and of all the miscarriages of my ministry and life 
which have been thereby caused ; and to make it my chief work 
to call men that are within my hearing to more peaceable thoughts, 
affections, and practises. And my endeavors have not been in 
vain, in that the ministers of the county where I lived were many 
of such a peaceable temper, and a great number more through the 
land, by God's grace, rather than any endeavors of mine, are so 
minded. But the sons of the cowl were exasperated the more 
against me, and accounted him to be against every man that 
called men to love and peace, and was for no man as in the con- 
trary way. 

61. John Tillotson. — Tillotson was born in the 
same year as Barrow. He was not so profound a thinker 
nor so close a reasoner as his great contemporary, but as 
a preacher he was quite as popular. Though less digni- 
fied, his style was more simple than that of Barrow, and 
required less effort on the part of his hearers. His piety 
was sincere, and his sermons were full of good sense and 
earnestness. He came to the people where they were, 
instead of holding himself aloof and trying to drag them 
up to him. This familiarity often injured the terseness 
of his style, caused him to draw out his sentences to 



LITERATURE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 87 

needless length, and led him to employ illustrations that 
were scarcely in keeping with the solemnity of his subject. 
Notwithstanding these defects, Tillotson was a charm- 
ing speaker and an easy writer. His genial disposition 
and tolerant spirit won him many friends, and caused 
him bitter enemies among those who advocated severity. 
He was made Archbishop of Canterbury, but died three 
years afterward. In all his public life he put forth 
earnest efforts to correct abuses in the church, and to 
promote a feeling of good-will. His sermons were his 
most interesting literary productions. Of his style of 
composition Chambers gives the following estimate : 
. ■ ' The style of Tillotson is frequently languid, his sen- 
tences tedious and unmusical, and his metaphors deficient 
in dignity ; yet there is so much warmth and earnest- 
ness in his manner, such purity and clearness of expres- 
sion, so entire a freedom from affectation and art, and 
so strong an infusion of excellent sense and amiable 
feeling, that in spite of all defects, these sermons must 
ever be valued by the admirers of practical religion and 
sound philosophy. Many passages might be quoted in 
which important truths and admonitions are conveyed 
with admirable force and precision." 

EVIDENCE OF A CREATOR IN THE STRUCTURE OF 
THE WORLD. 

How often might a man, after he hath jumbled a set of letters 
in a bag, fling them out upon the ground before they would fall 
into an exact poem, yea, or so much as to make a good discourse 
in prose. And may not a little book be as easily made by chance, 
as this great volume of the world ? How long might a man be in 
sprinkling colors upon a canvas with a careless hand, before they 
could happen to make the exact picture of a man ? And is a man 



88 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

easier made by chance than his picture ? How long might twenty 
thousand blind men, which should be sent out from the several 
remote parts of England, wander up and down before they would 
all meet upon Salisbury Plains, and fall into rank and file in the 
exact order of an army ? And yet this is much more easy to be 
managed, than how the innumerable blind parts of matter should 
rendezvous themselves into a world. 

RESOLUTION NECESSARY IN FORSAKING VICE. 

He that is deeply engaged in vice, is like a man laid fast in a 
bog, who by a faint and lazy struggling to get out, does but spend 
his strength to no purpose, and sinks himself the deeper into it: 
the only way is, by a resolute and vigorous effort, to spring out, 
if possible, at once. When men are sorely urgetl and pressed, 
they find a power in themselves which they thought they had not: 
like a coward driven up to a wall, who, in the extremity of distress 
and despair, will fight terribly, and perform wonders; or like a 
man lame of the gout, who, being assaulted by a present and terri- 
ble danger, forgets his disease, and will find his legs rather than 
lose his life. 

SPIRITUAL PRIDE. 

Nothing is more common, and more to be pitied, than to 
see with what a confident contempt and scornful pity some 
ill-instructed and ignorant people will lament the blindness and 
ignorance of those who have a thousand times more true knowl- 
edge and skill than themselves, not only in all other things, but 
even in the practise as well as knowledge of the Christian religion; 
believing those who do not relish their affected phrases and 
uncouth forms of speech to be ignorant of the mystery of the 
gospel, and utter strangers to the life and power of godliness. 

62. John Milton as a Poet. — Milton's poems 
are too well known to need an extended description. 
His great epic, '.' Paradise Lost," is a tragic presentation 
of war in heaven and the fall of Satan. Up to this time it 
had been the custom to characterize Satan as a hideous 



LITERATURE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 89 

monster, with horns and tail, and otherwise horrible in 
appearance. Milton takes a truer view and represents 
him as an angel of light, fallen at last, to be sure; but 
still majestic. Some think that such an impersonation 
of the "father of lies " creates in the reader a mingled 
feeling of admiration and pity, and thus gives a wrong 
impression of his character. 

Besides, they say that Satan is the central figure and 
real hero of the poem ; that the young reader comes to 
admire him more for his daring than he detests him for 
his wickedness, just as he does the bold highwayman or 
the daring pirate whose exploits and tragic end are set 
forth in glowing language. 

Again: they think that Milton treats the Majesty of 
heaven too familiarly; that he does not show proper def- 
erence for sacred things; that such subjects should" 
be treated with reverential awe; and that the lack of 
such treatment may produce irreverence in some who 
read. 

To those who raise these objections it may be said 
that the cure for these effects lies in a deeper study of 
the poem, in a better appreciation of the poet's motive, 
and a fuller participation in his exalted feelings. 

Of Milton's noble gift of poesy no one can have a 
doubt. No critic would willingly detract from his just 
fame; but none are perfect, and it should not be thought 
a crime to discover defects in any human work. No one 
thinks that there was any conscious irreverence in the 
pure mind of Milton; but one who has read his prose 
will not find it hard to believe that there might have 
been an intellectual, if not a spiritual, pride so inwoven 
in his nature as to manifest itself unawares. 



90 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

It has often been said that if Milton had never writ- 
ten anything but his " Hymn to the Nativity," he would 
still have been regarded as the greatest poet of his age. 
" Lycidas " is also a genuine specimen of the highest 
poetic art. But of all his beautiful conceptions none are 
more exquisitely set forth than those presented in the 
"Mask of Comus." In this poem more than in any 
other is seen the author's all-absorbing love of music. 
It might almost be said to be an embodiment of music. 

SOLILOQUY OF COMUS. 

The star that bids the shepherd fold, 

Now the top of heaven doth hold; 

And the gilded car of day 

His glowing axle doth allay 

In the steep Atlantic stream; 

And the slope sun his upward beam 

Shoots against the dusky pole, 

Pacing toward the other goal 

Of his chamber in the east. 

Meanwhile, welcome Joy and Feast, 

Midnight Shout and Revelry, 

Tipsy Dance and Jollity. 

Braid your locks with rosy twine, 

Dropping odors, dropping wine. 

Rigor now is gone to bed, 

And Advice with scrupulous head, 

Strict Age, and sour Severity, 

With their grave saws in slumber lie. 

We that are of purer fire 

Imitate the starry quire,* 

Who in their nightly watchful spheres, 

Lead in swift round the months and years. 

The sounds and seas, with all their finny drove, 

Now to the moon in wavering morrice move; 



*The modern spelling is choir. 



LITERATURE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 91 

And on the tawny sands and shelves 
Trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves. 
By dimpled brook, and fountain brim, 
The wood-nymphs decked with daisies trim, 
Their merry wakes and pastimes keep; 
What hath night to do with sleep? 

The language of Milton is always musical, always 
grand ; but no wing except that of genius can sustain so 
lofty a flight continuously without a sense of weariness. 
The reader, like the first dove sent out from the ark, 
finds no place to rest the sole of his foot. Milton was 
so familiar with classic languages that he almost thought 
in them, translating as he went. As a result, the ma- 
jority of his words are of foreign lineage, and lack the 
ease and familiarity given by words of native origin. In 
reading him continuously, one longs to put off his Sun- 
day suit, and enjoy for a time the ease and comfort of 
every-day apparel. Many of Milton's sentences are so 
long and so complicated that before the reader gets 
through with one, he forgets how it began. 

If thou beest he — But O how fallen ! how changed 
From him, who in the happy realms of light, 
Clothed with transcendent brightness, didst outshine 
Myriads, though bright. If he, whom mutual league, 
United thoughts and counsels, equal hope 
And hazard in the glorious enterprise, 
Joined with me once, now misery hath joined 
In equal ruin : into what pit thou seest 
From what height fallen, so much the stronger proved 
He with his thunder ; and till then who knew 
The force of those dire arms ? yet not for those, 
Nor what the potent victor in his rage 
Can else inflict, do I repent, or change, 
Though changed in outward luster, that fixed mind 



92 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

And high disdain from sense of injured merit, 
That with the Mightiest raised me to contend, 
And to the fierce contention brought along 
Innumerable force of spirits armed, 
That durst dislike his reign ; and, me preferring, 
His utmost power with adverse power opposed 
In dubious battle on the plains of heaven, 
And shook his throne. 

Such a style may be pleasing to some, but to others 
it becomes wearisome. Many parts of his poems, how- 
ever, are free from these unpleasant features. 

LINES FROM COMUS '. THE LADY'S DEFENSE OF CHASTITY. 

I had not thought to have unlocked my lips 
In this unhallowed air, but that this juggler 
Would think to charm my judgment, as mine eves, 
Obtruding false rules pranked in reason's garb. 
I hate when vice can bolt her arguments, 
And virtue has no tongue to check her pride. 
Impostor, do not charge most innocent Nature, 
As if she would her children should be riotous 
With her abundance ; she, good cateress, 
Means her provision only to the good, 
That live according to her sober laws, 
And holy dictate of spare temperance : 
If every just man, that now pines with want, 
Had but a moderate and beseeming share 
Of that which lewdly-pampered luxury 
Now heaps upon some few with vast excess, 
Nature's full blessing would be well dispensed 
In unsuperfluous even proportion, 
And she no whit incumbered with her store ; 
And then the giver would be better thanked, 
His praise due paid ; for swinish gluttony 
Ne 'er looks to heaven amidst his gorgeous feast, 
But with besotted base ingratitude 
Crams, and blasphemes his feeder. 



LITERATURE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 93 

63. John Dryden, — Next to Milton, Dryden was 
the greatest poetical genius of his age. For the most 
part, however, his genius was degraded to the low tastes 
of a dissolute monarch and a corrupt court. He was 
not true to his noblest conceptions. With gifts that 
might have put his name upon the roll of honor for all 
time, he gave himself to the amusement of the reckless 
Charles II and the profligate courtiers in whose com- 
pany the king delighted. He was kept almost con- 
stantly occupied in writing for the stage, and earned this 
unenviable reputation : "All Dryden's plays are marked 
with licentiousness, the vice of that age, which he fos- 
tered rather than attempted to check." * 

Dryden always deplored what he falsely deemed the 
necessity of writing these plays, and toward the close 
of his life regretted the course he had taken. When 
Jeremy Collier wrote against the immorality of Dryden's 
plays, Dryden wrote in reply, " I shall say the less, 
because in many things he has taxed me justly ; and I 
have pleaded guilty to all thoughts and expressions of 
mine which can be truly argued of obscenity, profane- 
ness, or immorality, and retract them. If he be my 
enemy, let him triumph ; if he be my friend, as I have 
given him no personal occasion to be otherwise, he will 
be glad of my repentance. It becomes me not to draw 
my pen in the defense of a bad cause, when I have so 
often drawn it for a good one." 

Dryden was a complete master of prose, as may be 
seen from the short quotation just given. As a satirist 
he scarcely has an equal. Of this gift, if gift it may be 
called, his "Absalom and Achitophel " is a famous 

* Chambers's Cyclopedia of English Literature. 



94 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

example. His poetry abounds in noble lines and exqui- 
site passages, scattered here and there, — enough to 
show the capacity of the writer. In his poem of the 
''Hind and Panther," the hind represents the Catholic 
Church, — of which Dryden was a member during the 
later years of his life, — while the panther represents the 
Church of England. The following are the opening 
lines : — 

A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchanged, 

Fed on the lawns, and in the forest ranged ; 

Without unspotted, innocent within, 

She feared no danger, for she knew no sin. 

Yet had she oft been chased with horns and hounds, 

And Scythian shafts, and many winged wounds 

Aimed at her heart ; was often forced to fly, 

And doomed to death though fated not to die. 

The Panther, sure the noblest next the Hind, 
And fairest creature of the spotted kind, — 
O, could her inborn stains be washed away, 
She were too good to be a beast of prey ! 
How can I praise or blame, and not offend, 
Or how divide the frailty from the friend ? 
Her faults and virtues lie so mixed that she 
Nor wholly stands condemned nor wholly free. 

Here is a fragment from the poem composed in honor 
of Saint Cecilia's Day. It sets forth the power which 
music can exert over human emotions. 

Thus long ago, 
Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, 
While organs yet were mute, 
Timotheus to his breathing flute 
And sounding lyre, 
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 



LITERATURE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 95 

At last, divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
And added length to solemn sounds, 
With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown : 
He raised a mortal to the skies ; 

She drew an angel down. 

It has been said of Dryden, that though " deficient 
in the finer emotions of love and tenderness," he "took 
wide surveys of nature and mankind;" that "his bold 
pencil was true to nature; " and that his muse, though 
a "fallen angel," was yet "radiant with light." His 
language was genuine English. He used foreign deriva- 
tives sparingly, saying, ' ' If too many foreign words are 
poured in upon us, it looks as if they were designed not 
to assist the natives but to conquer them." 

64s John Locke. — Locke has been called the 
apostle and high priest of common sense. He was a 
philosopher; but with him, philosophy and practise were 
inseparable. Everything had to be tested in the field of 
experiment and experience. His greatest work is the 
"Essay on Human Understanding." The "Essay" 
consists of four books. Although profound enough in 
thought, this work is written in the most plain and sim- 
ple language. He hated scholastic jargon, and used a 
style that every person of ordinary intelligence could 
understand. 

"Thoughts Concerning Education " is another valua- 
ble work produced by the same author. " Nothing can 



96 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

surpass the soundness and good sense displayed in the 
infinite multitude of minute observations respecting the 
physical, moral, and intellectual treatment of children, 
with which this excellent treatise abounds: so numerous, 
indeed, are they, and so valuable, that, though few 
branches of science have been more sedulously culti- 
vated, particularly of late years, than education, the best 
writers on the subject would seem to have done little 
more than complete and extend the plan laid down by 
Locke, whose whole work bespeaks an intense, though 
calm, love of truth and goodness; a quality which few 
have possessed more fully, or known so well how to 
exert, as this admirable philosopher."* 

It is altogether probable that a thoughtful reader of 
Locke's " Essay on Education " would regard the esti- 
mate given by Mr. Shaw as more highly eulogistic than 
strictly just. The standard of education in the " Essay " 
is in many respects low, some of the motives are un- 
worthy, the fundamental principles are not all sound, 
and the whole work shows the bias of the country and 
the age. 

Locke wrote several other important works, among 
which was the ' ' Essay on the Reasonableness of Chris- 
tianity. " He was a firm defender of civil and religious 
liberty, and was consequently obliged to spend much of 
his time in foreign countries to escape the bitter perse- 
cutions raised against him in England. 

In the words of the excellent author quoted above, 
" It is delightful to reflect that this great writer, whose 
mind was so acute and so vigorous, and who devoted all 
his energies to the furtherance of truth and goodness, 

* Shaw's "Outline of Literature." 



LITERATURE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. , 97 

was as amiable and venerable a man as he was an 
admirable author. His life was calm, happy, and labo- 
rious; and at his death (in 1704) he left behind him, in 
his immortal works, a monument worthy of the con- 
tinuer of Bacon, and of the friend of Newton." And it 
may be added that the most of his works are still good 
reading. The brief extracts given below will show his 
habit of logical thinking, and the plainness of his style. 

PREJUDICES. 

Every one is forward to complain of the prejudices that mislead 
other men or parties, as if he were free, and had none of his own. 
This being objected on all sides, it is agreed that it is a fault, and 
a hindrance to knowledge. What, now, is the cure ? No other 
but this — that every man should let alone others' prejudices, and 
examine his own. Nobody is convinced of his by the accusation 
of another; he recriminates by the same rule, and is clear. The 
only way to remove this great cause of ignorance and error out of 
the world, is for every one impartially to examine himself. 

INJUDICIOUS HASTE IN STUDY. 

The eagerness and strong bent of the mind after knowledge, 
if not warily regulated, is often a hindrance to it. It still presses 
into further discoveries and new objects, and catches at the 
variety of knowledge, and therefore often stays not long enough 
on what is before it, to look into it as it should, for haste to pur- 
sue what is yet out of sight. He that rides post through a coun- 
try may be able, from the transient view, to tell in general how 
the parts lie, and may be able to give some loose description of 
here a mountain and there a plain, here a morass and there a 
river ; woodland in one part, and savannahs in another. Such 
superficial ideas and observations as these he may collect in gal- 
loping over it; but the more useful observations of the soil, plants, 
animals, and inhabitants, with their several sorts and properties, 
must necessarily escape him; and it is seldom men ever discover 
the rich mines without some digging. 
7 



98 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

65. Sir Isaac Newton. — Newton is supposed to 
have been the profoundest mathematician the world has 
ever produced. He loved study from a child. His teacher 
in mathematics was Isaac Barrow ; but famous as was 
the teacher for his great learning, the pupil outstripped 
him. Newton was a very modest man, and kept some 
of his greatest discoveries for years before publishing 
them. 

So far as is known, the law of gravitation was never 
thought of until it was revealed to the studious mind of 
Newton. Men now see suggestions of it in the Scrip- 
tures, but these suggestions do not seem to have been 
understood. What must have been Newton's feelings 
when this law, — the immediate power that holds the 
universe together, — was first suggested to him! It is 
said that at first he was so excited that he could not 
perform the mathematical operations necessary to prove 
his theory. But when his theory had been thoroughly 
tested, the establishment of the newly-discovered law 
was beyond contradiction. 

By a long series of careful experiments with pieces 
of glass, which he ground into various forms, Newton 
made many discoveries in optics. Among these were 
the laws of the refrangibility of light, and its separation 
into rays of different colors. 

It has been said that in the fields of study which 
Newton explored, his researches were so thorough and 
so far-reaching that nothing of note has been discovered 
in them since his day. He was also a profound student 
of the Bible, which he prized very highly. He wrote 
on the prophecies, especially on those of Daniel, and 
on those revealed to John in the Apocalypse. 



LITERATURE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 99 

66. Historical Writers. — The most noted his- 
torical writers of the century were Lord Clarendon 
(Edward Hyde) and Bishop Burnet. The former wrote 
a "History of the Rebellion and Civil Wars in Eng- 
land," and the latter, a "History of the Reformation of 
the Church of England." They both wrote several 
other works, and Burnet was a very popular preacher. 
He is said to have been ' ' emphatically an honest, gen- 
erous, and good-natured man," — one who "appealed 
to the God of Truth, that he had, on all occasions, in 
his work, told the truth. " His history has the further 
reputation of being lively and interesting, — a book of 
which the reader never tires. Horace Walpole says, 
' ' It seems as if he [Burnet] had just come from the 
king's closet, or from the apartments of the men whom 
he describes, and was telling his readers, in plain, hon- 
est terms, what he had seen and heard." 

67. General Remarks on the Period. — This 
chapter is already longer than it was at first intended to 
be, yet it gives but a glimpse of the period of which it 
treats. The metaphysical poets, — Donne, Waller, Cow- 
ley, Davenant, Denham, etc., as well as a host of other 
writers, have not been mentioned ; but it is not the 
purpose of this outline to do more than to give a gen- 
eral conception of the best that the period produced. 
Details would tend to confuse rather than to make 
more distinct the impression herein contemplated. 

The poetry of any period is sufficient to illustrate the 
degree of refinement which its language and literature 
have attained ; but there should be something to show 
the nation's growth in character and thought no less 



100 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

than that of its esthetic culture. The bone and sinew 
of its literature should be studied as well as its advance 
in tasteful ornamentation. Hence the prose-writings of 
the century have been given a prominent place. 

It must be .borne in mind that the writings described 
in this chapter were produced contemporaneously, and 
mostly during the latter half of the century. If we 
remember that these poets, preachers, philosophers, 
scholars, statesmen, philanthropists, reformers, and his- 
torians were nearly all of them on the stage of action at 
the same time, and that it was a period of revolutions, 
of warring principles and factions, of religious persecu- 
tions and fearless martyrdoms for truth, we shall better 
understand what a tremendous force of mental and emo- 
tional activity was stirring the nation. We shall be pre- 
pared to feel that the strong arm of an overruling 
Providence must have been outstretched to preserve 
the nation. 

The table on the opposite page will show at a glance 
how long the writers named in it were living and writing 
at the same time. 

Of course the lives and works of the writers of any 
century merge into those of the next. For instance, 
we may notice Walton, Shakespeare, Newton, and 
others. A number of the men whose writings will be 
noticed in the next chapter were born in the seventeenth 
century. Some of them had begun to write before the 
eighteenth century opened. But the writers are intro- 
duced under the century when most of their writings 
were produced, and when they were exerting the strong- 
est influence on the thought and language of the nation. 



































1 












& 












&3 












































<s 








^ 




!' 






See 
2 z 

5 H 


i 

S'. z 




_0 
£ a 


§1 


ft 1 
» 

a Co 


1 

*> Z 

£:z 


3 W 

ft'* 3 


5? 


Is 
s-'s 

ft z 


s z 


1 










<^ 




• z 


a"' 


,3> ' 




"t 


s * 


^ 50 








° 


s 


^ 






8 


^ 


4, 




ft. 




rs 
















J 


V? 




."* 


* 


















>s 




































































<i' 
















1* 








w 




s 




























2 


^r 


3r. 


3r 


js 


$F. 


jr: 


*?. 


$F. 


^£ 


^r. 


3r. 


Zr 


Si? 


s. 


S^ 


s js 


So 


°n 


IS 


3 2 


3 3 


sS 


3^ 


3^ 




Pi 

O" 


ft CL 


ft CL 


p a. 


« a. 


ft CL 


p a. 


ft CL 


ft Cl 


ft CL 


ft Cl 


ft CL 


ft Cl 






























cr 
















































t. 






























n: 


3 




























(j 




























M 






M 
























ON 




























M 









8 
























3 
































< 


» 




























H 


On 














^ 


<_, 
















On 



































en 


° 


















3 






































ai 


































to 


rt 
















































































ON 


On 






ON 

00 




























> 


' 


JN 


N£ 










i> 








) 


< 


3 






































































H 











O 








































On 










cr 


ON 


i 


jn 




































7 




" 


Jn 
! 






ft 




1 


i 



















































OJ 






























Ov 










1 














































-P. 


















































On 




■vj 










ON 
























O 









































<J\ 



















> 










































o 


n ! 






















H 




I JN 




c 


IN 
































3 






















3N 






jn 












































M 














i 


> 




C 


) 




c 
































On 












Os 




































































Jn 


























































O 














































1 
c 


i\ 





















J 


i 




























































«" 


















































On 




























































-J 


























ON 
NO 
















- 




























00 

o 






00 


Jas.II. 


































ON 

00 

00 














o, 





3 


































ON 












3 


























( 


> 






NO 






































<i 


3 






































1 


> 


-P- 
















8 


P 
















VJ 























> i 





































3 


































g 


3 
ft 




vj 






























o 


- 1 






























ft 


<J\ 




























o 


o 




-I 


i 






















w 





































\ 


























' P 













































































;ioi] 



CHAPTER SEVEN 



The Eighteenth Century. 

The literature of this period was abundant, and 
forms an interesting study. Its general scope and tend- 
ency is about all that can be considered here ; but that, 
it is hoped, will be sufficient to inspire the student to 
further investigation. 

68. Its Authors. — The authors who wrote most 
and best during the first half of the eighteenth century 
were born well back in the seventeenth, and some of 
them had begun to write in that century. 

At the opening of this eighteenth century — a. d. 
1700 — Defoe was thirty-nine ; Swift, thirty-three ; Pope, 
thirty-two ; Steele and Addison, twenty-eight ; Watts, 
twenty-six ; Bolingbroke, twenty-two ; and Young, 
sixteen. 

Following these, and for a longer or shorter period 
contemporary with them, were the poets — Thomson, 
Gray, Collins, Goldsmith, Cowper, and Burns ; the 
theologians — Butler and Edwards ; the evangelists — 
Whitefield and Wesley ; the historians — Hume, Rob- 
ertson, and Gibbon ; Johnson, the lexicographer ; Frank- 
lin, the philosopher ; Walpole, the wit ; Burke, the 
orator ; and Richardson, Fielding, Sterne, Smollet, the 
first great authors of fiction. 
[102] 






THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 103 

Other writers as gifted as these might be mentioned ; 
but the ones here named have been chosen with a view 
to setting forth, as clearly as possible, the thought and 
literature of the period. 

69. General Character of the Literature. — 

The literature of any period is greatly affected by the 
moral tone of the nation, and especially by the influences 
that prevail at court or seat of government. The aus- 
terity of the Puritans under the Commonwealth, together 
with their unnecessary restrictions on the innocent 
amusements of the people, gave place to the complete 
abandon of the court under Charles II. The latter state 
was a reaction from the former. Rigid self-denial was 
followed by unrestrained indulgence. Concerning either 
of these extremes, facts might be stated that would 
sadden the heart of every lover of truth and virtue. 
This is especially true of the perfect abandon that suc- 
ceeded the rigorous rule of the Puritans. Even the 
genius of Dryden was prostituted to this corrupted 
taste. 

But the same period was blessed with some of the 
ablest and most devoted religious teachers that have 
ever defended truth and held up the banner of right- 
eousness against the hosts of error. The great body of 
the people, too, especially those remote from London, 
were not seriously affected by the vanities and licentious- 
ness of the court and the gay butterflies that hovered 
about it. Sturdy yeomen and industrious mechanics 
worked and thought, while the aristocracy were squan- 
dering time, health, and character in a continuous round 
of vain amusements. This substratum of honest integ- 



104 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

rity was what saved England from destruction during 
this- period of upheavals and commotions. There was 
the great Rebellion in the middle of the century, and the 
Revolution, in 1688, which dethroned the ignominious 
James II, brought in William of Orange, and gave Eng- 
land a constitutional government. But during all this 
turmoil, the Reformation had been making silent prog- 
ress in the hearts of honest people ; and the tree of civil 
and religious liberty, although often mutilated, had been 
extending its roots broader and deeper, thus preparing 
the way for a most vigorous growth. 

The poetry of Dryden, with all its faults, contains 
grand and inspiring thoughts. His style, though at times 
careless, is vigorous, natural, and sometimes grand. His 
poetry, therefore, was not without its beneficial effects 
on the language. 

During the first third of the eighteenth century, 
poetry acquired a high degree of polish. Its diction and 
versification bordered on perfection. But in naturalness 
and motive power, it was deficient. It treated largely 
of the frivolous gossip and affected manners of what was 
falsely called "high life." 

The most elaborately-finished and highly-praised 
poem of this early part of the century was the " Rape of 
the Lock," which means the stealing of a lock of hair. 
It consisted of about seven hundred and fifty neatly- 
wrought lines, all about how a gentleman, having play- 
fully clipped a lock of hair from a lady's head, refused to 
return it, the result being a family feud, which no per- 
suasion on the part of friends could allay. 

The deeper emotions of the soul, its genial commu- 
nings with God and nature, its higher aspirations toward 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 105 

the holy and heavenly, — these found no expression. 
Gradually, however, under the influence of such writers 
as Thomson, Gray, Goldsmith, Cowper, and Burns, 
poetry was brought back to its normal state. Poesy 
was lured from the heat and taint of artificial life in 
the city to dwell once more in nature's sweet solitudes. 
The prose-writings of the period had a no less benefi- 
cent mission. They had a powerful influence in correct- 
ing faults and vain customs, in promoting a more 
rational view of life and its enjoyments, and in culti- 
vating more correct and refined tastes. 

70. The Satirists. — The gift of satire did not die 
out with Dryden at the close of the seventeenth century. 
He was followed in the beginning of the next century by 
three remarkable men, all of them noted for their pro- 
ficiency in this somewhat doubtful accomplishment. One 
of them was genial, one spiteful, the other morose; but 
all were writers of unusual powers. Pope, the poet, 
was called " The Wicked Wasp of Twickenham ; " Addi- 
son was a polished gentleman — - a man of the world; 
Swift was regarded as a misanthropist. 

71. Alexander Pope (1668-1744). — Of the wri- 
tings of Alexander Pope, various opinions are held. By 
some they are greatly admired, and by others they are 
no doubt greatly undervalued. It is generally conceded 
that he was a man of an acute, though not a profound, 
intellect. On account of frail health and a poor consti- 
tution he never had the advantages of schools, and his 
private instruction was limited. He educated himself 
mostly by reading, in the solitude of his own room. 



106 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

Without the privilege of mingling in it, he was yet a 
devotee of society, — a poet of the city rather than of 
the country or of nature. He was a severe critic, yet 
could not bear criticism. He spared no pains in giving 
his poetry the finest finish. One of the graces he intro- 
duced was that of the rimed couplet. This, though pleas- 
ant at first, becomes monotonous at length. Much of 
his poetry consists of trite maxims, expressed in a form 
so exquisite as to make them appear new. He excelled 
in fanciful writing; and every lover of his poetry must 
regret that so much genius and skill should have been 
wasted in the vindictive chastisement of supposed ene- 
mies, and in retaliation for imaginary insults. Few poets 
have furnished more apt quotations than Pope; and few, 
if any, have acquired so great fame with advantages so 
meager. Yet it must be admitted that his writings 
abound in worldly wisdom, rather than in generous 
love and sympathy for mankind. 

72. Joseph Addison (1672-1729). — Addison was 
a miscellaneous writer, but excelled most in short essays. 
His poetry was dignified, but not brilliant. Only one 
of his plays proved a success, and that is now regarded 
as tame. As a satirist he is so kindly that he ridicules 
without giving offense. His blade is keen, but has no 
ragged edge. His style is easy and natural; his words, 
though well chosen, are not pretentious ; his sentences 
are carefully constructed without being formal or heavy. 
Of all Addison's writings, his contributions to the 
Tatler, the Spectator, and the Guardian are most 
admired. These essays have a healthy moral tone, but 
their aim generally falls short of the sublime in motive. 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 107 

A work on the " Evidences of the Christian Religion " 
was left unfinished at his death. It may be said that, 
on the whole, the effect of Addison's writings was uni- 
formly good. 

73. Jonathan Swift (1667-1745). — Dean Swift, 
as he is often called, was a man of powerful intellect. 
He had quick insight, especially in everything pertaining 
to practical life and the baser qualities of human nature. 
He had a keen sense of the farces played in fashionable 
circles, and exposed them without mercy. He depended 
upon ridicule rather than persuasion as a means of cur- 
ing the faults and foibles of society; and whatever may 
be thought of the correctness of his practise, it must be 
admitted that his doses were not lacking in copiousness 
nor strength. ' 

He wrote much, and always with vigor. His polit- 
ical pamphlets were a terror to the party which he 
opposed, and were the heavy artillery of the cause he 
advocated. 

His poetry was deficient in tenderness, as well as in 
flights of fancy; but he did not aim high, and it may be 
fairly said that he usually reached his mark. Some of his 
lines have a peculiar interest on account of the strange- 
ness of their theme. 

Swift's writings would have established his claim to 
a high rank among authors, even if he had not written 
"Gulliver's Travels;" but it is on that work that his 
reputation chiefly rests. It is a burlesque on a grand 
scale, — an extended satire on the pride and vanity ol 
fashionable life. First he visits the land of the Lillipu- 
tians, who are so insignificant in size that they, finding 



108 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

him asleep, clamber on to him by the aid of tiny ladders, 
and scramble over him like mosquitoes. Yet the little 
creatures have their laws, their king and court, their 
ceremonies, and are as pompous as dignitaries of larger 
growth. Then he visits the Brobdingnagians, who are 
so gigantic that he — a large-sized man — is carried 
about as a doll in the dress pocket of a half-grown girl. 

The originality of Swift's style and his terseness of 
expression have been much admired. ' ' The purity of 
his prose style renders it a model of English composi- 
tion." — Chambers. 

' ' Vigor and perspicuity mark every page. There 
is no sign of pedantry in his style; every sentence is 
homely and rugged and strong. His vocabulary is 
thoroughly Saxon, and the variety of English idioms 
used in expressing his thought is greater than can be 
found in any other writer of his age." — Backus. 

7^. Richard Steele (1672-1745). — Steele was 
the friend and schoolmate of Addison. He had an im- 
pulsive, but a generous, disposition. He was active and 
enterprising, devoting his energies to reforms, which were 
much needed at that time. As one means of securing 
his end, he started a little tri-weekly paper called the 
Tatler. It was insignificant in size ; but each sheet 
contained, besides the news, an essay, written in a pleas- 
ant style, and touching good-naturedly upon some 
needed reform. The Tatler became popular at once, 
had a large circulation for those times, and exercised 
a healthful influence. In less than two years, Steele 
having met with some reverses, the Tatler had to be 
discontinued. But with his accustomed irrepressible 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 109 

energy, he soon started another paper called the Specta- 
tor. This sheet was issued six times a week. To these 
periodicals Steele and Addison contributed the best 
fruits of their genius, and they were assisted more or less 
by Swift and others. Steele wrote a number of plays, 
many of them successful; but in all of them he showed 
the same motive that prompted him in publishing the 
Tatler, the Spectator, and the Guardian. He used 
his utmost endeavor to show the folly of dueling and 
many other evil practises that were a disgrace to an 
enlightened people. 

It was no mercenary motive that prompted Steele in 
his efforts to furnish cheap and pleasant reading. Of 
the need of such efforts we may form some conception 
when told that "fine ladies actually prided themselves 
on their ignorance of spelling, and any allusion to books 
was scouted as pedantry." 

"As an essayist, Steele is remarkable for the vivacity 
and ease of his composition. He tried all subjects ; was 
a humorist, a satirist, a critic, and a story-teller. His 
1 Inkle and Yarico ' and other tales in the Tatler and 
Spectator are exquisite for their simple pathos. His 
pictures of life and society have the stamp of reality. 
They are often imperfectly finished, and present trivial 
and incongruous details ; but they abound in inimitable 
touches. His elevated conception of the female char- 
acter has justly been remarked as distinguishing him 
from most writers of his age." — Chambers. 

75. Daniel Defoe (1661-1731). — Defoe is said to 
have been the author of two hundred and fifty-four sepa- 
rate publications. He was a man of almost unparalleled 



110 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

courage and energy. He was born poor, but acquired a 
good education, was active in business, accumulated 
something of a fortune, lost it by reverses, wrote polit- 
ical essays, pamphlets, satires, was often imprisoned and 
severely fined on account of his liberal and independent 
views, but was cheerful and good-natured through it all. 
When placed in the pillory on account of something he 
had written, he forthwith composed an ' ' Ode to the 
Pillory." He suggested the Tatler and the Spectator, 
and while in prison conducted a tri-weekly paper, called 
The Review.. He was sent by the government to 
Scotland to negotiate a union of that country with 
England. As soon as this great political negotiation was 
accomplished, he wrote a history of it. When nearly 
sixty years old, he was stricken with apoplexy, and it 
was supposed that his literary career was ended. But 
it was after this that he performed the crowning work 
of his life, writing book after book, until he earned 
the name of being the " founder and father of the Eng- 
lish novel." 

" Defoe is more natural even than Swift ; and his 
style, though inferior in directness and energy, is more 
copious. He was strictly an original writer, with strong, 
clear conceptions ever rising up in his mind, which he 
was able to embody in language equally perspicuous and 
forcible." — Chambers. 

His realistic power was so great that he was accused 
of forging the handwriting of Nature. Many took his 
description of the great plague in London as a narrative 
of real occurrences ; and one of his works of fiction was 
quoted by Lord Chatham as authentic history. Of all 
his writings there may be left nothing now that we would 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. Ill 

care to read ; but so great a genius could hardly be 
passed by in silence. If for nothing else, he will always 
be remembered as the author of " Robinson Crusoe." 

76. Dr. Isaac Watts (1674-1748). — It has been 
well said that " Isaac Watts is a name never to be pro- 
nounced without reverence by any lover of pure Chris- 
tianity, or by any well-wisher of mankind." Frail in 
childhood, he never became strong, and on account of 
ill health he was obliged to spend the last thirty-six 
years of his life in retirement, preaching only occasionally, 
and giving most of his time to study and writing. 

He wrote a treatise on "Logic" and another on the 
"Improvement of the Mind." His other prose- writings 
consisted of theological works and some volumes of ser- 
mons. But he is best remembered by his beautiful 
hymns. As long as Christians worship in the English 
tongue, these hymns will be sung; and through them 
will this quiet scholar be remembered when the more 
dazzling geniuses of his day have been forgotten. Being 
dead, he yet speaketh; for his sweet words are syllabled 
by the tongue of childhood, and dwelt upon lovingly by 
the trembling lips of age. A roused intellect may slum- 
ber again; but he who touches the heart, sets in motion 
a wave that will roll on through the generations till it 
reaches the shores of the eternal world. 

77. Lord Bolingbroke (1678-175 1). — Henry St. 
John, Viscount Bolingbroke, was possessed of genius and 
originality. His style is fascinating and delightful; but 
his ardor is fitful, his reasoning often unsafe, and his 
influence not the best. He has some fine passages, 



112 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

but on the whole his writings are better avoided than 
studied. Some specimens of his style will be found in 
Part Second. 

78. Edward Young (1684-1765). — This peculiar 
writer was original and imaginative. But his imagina- 
tion was somber; it delighted to wander in gloom, in the 
atmosphere of lurid fancies and of the grave. He has, 
however, produced many striking pictures of real life, 
and is, on the whole, much truer to nature than the 
artificial poets who had just preceded him. His poetry 
abounds in excellent passages. Yet his writings are 
more agreeable when read in fragments than when read 
continuously. His most noted work is his "Night 
Thoughts." This poem is much admired and quoted by 
some, while others shrink from it as they would from 
watching alone with the dead. It cannot be denied that 
Young has too strong a tendency to intensify and parade 
his own misfortunes. 

79. Bishop Butler (1692-1752). — This theolog- 
ical writer is distinguished for his greatest work, called 
the "Analogy of Religion to the Course of Nature." He 
reasons that from a close study of the works of God in 
nature, one is led to expect from the Author of nature a 
revelation showing the obligation of mankind to their 
Creator and their duty to one another. He holds that 
as there are mysteries in nature which no one can 
explain, so we must expect to find in Revelation some 
things too profound for the human understanding. His 
work depends for its popularity upon the talent mani- 
fested in it rather than upon its literary excellence. 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 113 

80. Jonathan Edwards (1703-1758). — This emi- 
nent theological and metaphysical writer was born in 
Windsor, Connecticut. His whole life was an example 
of tenderness and devotion. His definition of true relig- 
ion is much to be admired. He says, "True religion, in 
a great measure, consists in holy affections. A love of 
divine things, for the beauty and sweetness of their moral 
excellency, is the spring of all holy affections." So far 
as they coincide with this definition, the writings of this 
devout man are acceptable to all earnest Christians. 
But when he limits this happy condition to those of his 
own particular faith, it seems a marvel that he could not 
discern the inconsistency of his position. From Cham- 
bers's Cyclopedia of English Literature, a British publi- 
cation, we quote the following estimate of this American 
author and preacher: "By his power of subtle argu- 
ment, his religious fervor, and his peculiar doctrines 
respecting free-will, Edwards has obtained a high and 
lasting reputation. He has perhaps never been sur- 
passed as a dialectician." And again, "He was . . . 
a zealous and faithful minister, and like most profound 
thinkers, a man of childlike simplicity of manners." 

Of the temper of his mind, some estimate may be 
made from the following short extract taken from his 
writings : — 

As I was walking there, and looked upon the sky and clouds, 
there came into my mind so sweet a sense of the glorious majesty 
and grace of God that I know not how to express it. God's excel- 
lency, his wisdom, his purity and love, seemed to appear in every- 
thing, — in the sun, moon, and stars ; in the clouds and blue sky ; 
in the grass, flowers, trees ; in the water and all nature, — which 
used greatly to fix my mind. I often used to sit and view the 



114 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

moon a long time, and so in the daytime spent much time in view- 
ing the clouds and sky, to behold the sweet glory of God in these 
things ; in the meantime singing with a loud voice my contempla 
tions of the Creator and Redeemer. I used to be a person uncom- 
monly terrified with thunder ; and it used to strike me with terror 
when I saw a thunder-storm rising ; but now, on the contrary, it 
rejoiced me. I felt God at the first appearance of a thunder- 
storm, and used to take an opportunity at such times to fix myself 
to view the clouds and see the lightnings play, and hear the 
majestic and awful voice of God's thunder. 



81. Benjamin Franklin (i 706-1 790). — In Frank- 
lin we have an example of an American born poor, but 
by his own unaided efforts rising to usefulness and 
eminence. From a printer's devil he grew to be a 
statesman and diplomat. He seemed an embodiment 
of practical wisdom. As a printer, a philanthropist, a 
patriot, and a minister to foreign courts, he was an 
honor to his country, being equally earnest and success- 
ful in all. He was a lover of mankind and a benefactor 
to his race. His writings were comparatively few and 
exceedingly plain, yet they were pointed and full of 
native strength. He did not write for fame, but for the 
sole purpose of aiding his fellow men. In his writings 
he tells us that he ' ' set a greater value on a doer 
of good than on any other kind of reputation." His 
Poor Richard's Almanac and the memoirs of his own 
life are most popular. One would not study the wri- 
tings of Franklin for the sake of improving himself in 
literary style, unless it should be for the qualities of 
directness and force. They are to be studied as exam- 
ples of strong common sense, as an incentive to sturdy 
manhood, a quickener of thought. 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 115 

Franklin made valuable discoveries in science. 
When, by the simple means of a kite, a key, and a 
hempen string, he discovered the identity of lightning 
and electricity, he was so overcome by his feelings that 
he said he could willingly have died at that moment, — a 
striking expression from a cool-headed philosopher. 

82. Dr. Samuel Johnson (1709-1784). — Few 

men have ever exercised so powerful and so wide-spread 
an influence over the language and literature of their 
age as did Samuel Johnson. He has been called the 
literary dictator, and was the founder of English lexi- 
cography. To the production of his dictionary, he gave 
about eight years of solid study, at the best period of 
his life. This was his greatest work; but his "Lives 
of the Poets," the narrative of his travels in the Heb- 
rides, his essays in the Rambler and the Idler, his 
version of the Parliamentary debates, his " Rasselas, " 
and other productions, were valuable contributions to our 
literature, and abound in expressions of sound common 
sense, and in strong denunciations of everything licen- 
tious or immoral. 

Johnson's writings were strongly instrumental in 
bringing into so-called polite society a higher tone of 
morals and a juster appreciation of literary excellence. 
His poetry had many good qualities, but to raise it to 
the highest rank would have required a more vivid imagi- 
nation "than Johnson possessed. His style was too 
pompous and too measured to suit any but the pro- 
foundest subjects. In this respect his influence was not 
salutary ; since it banished, for a time, "the naked sim- 
plicity of Swift, and the graces of Addison." His style 



116 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

was better in conversation than in his writings. He 
was dictatorial, it is true ; but as an author his course 
"was singularly pure and high-minded." 

83. The Historians. — Among the historians of 
the century, there are three who are distinguished above 
all others. Named in the order of their writing, they 
are Hume, Robertson, and Gibbon. They were all 
gifted men, and so far as scholarship and good language 
go, their works were such as any nation might be 
proud of. 

84. David Hume (1711-1776) was the first his- 
torian whose works graced our literature. His style was 
clear, dignified, and often elegant. At the same time 
his narrative was easy, animated, and interesting. But 
he prized beauty of expression above accuracy of state- 
ment. His work is so replete with errors that it cannot 
be taken as authority. Besides, his writings are so 
tainted with skepticism and infidelity as to make them 
unprofitable reading. 

85. William Robertson [.1721-1793) was a man 

of undoubted purity of character. He was a Scottish 
pastor, who by close study ' and patient research, was 
enabled to write some of the best histories the world 
has ever known. They are clear, accurate, and unbiased. 
The language is pure and classical, but lacks the sturdy 
vigor which a greater proportion of homely Saxon words 
would have given. His chief works were ' ' History of 
Scotland during the Reigns of Queen Mary and of King 
James VI," " History of the Reign of Charles V," and 
"History of America." 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 117 

86. Edward Gibbon (i 737-1 794) was the well- 
known author of the "Decline and Fall of the Roman 
Empire." His history is a truly great work, and is 
written with masterly skill. 

■ He has been accused of disparaging the Christian 
religion in a very artful manner, suppressing or belittling 
its most glorious achievements, and giving undue promi- 
nence to every blemish or stigma brought upon it by 
hypocrisy or fanaticism. Perhaps he should be allowed 
to speak for himself. 

A pure and humble religion gently insinuated itself into the 
minds of men, grew up in silence and obscurity, derived new vigor 
from opposition, and finally erected the triumphant banner of the 
Cross on the ruins of the capital. — Chap. 15 : 1. 



Our curiosity is naturally prompted to inquire by what means 
the Christian faith obtained so remarkable a victory over the 
established religions of the earth. To this inquiry an obvious but 
satisfactory answer may be returned, — that it was owing to the 
convincing evidence of the doctrine itself, and to the ruling provi- 
dence of its great Author. — 15:3. 



If we consider the purity of the Christian religion, the sanc- 
tity of its moral precepts, and the innocent as well as austere 
lives of the greater number of those who during the first ages 
embraced the faith of the gospel, etc. — 16:1. 



The pure and sublime idea which they entertained of the 
Supreme Being, escaped the gross conception of the Pagan multi- 
tude. — 16 : 7. 



The Pagan multitude, reserving their gratitude for temporal 
benefits alone, rejected the inestimable present of life and immor- 
tality, which was offered to mankind by Jesus of Nazareth, His 



118 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

mild constancy in the midst of cruel and voluntary sufferings, his 
universal benevolence, and the sublime simplicity of his actions 
and character, were insufficient, in the opinion of those carnal 
men, to compensate for the want of fame, of empire, and of suc- 
cess; and while they refused to acknowledge his stupendous 
triumph over the powers of darkness and of the grave, they 
misrepresented, or they insulted the equivocal birth, wander- 
ing life, and ignominious death, of the divine Author of Chris- 
tianity. — 16 : 8. 



The pure and simple maxims of the gospel. 



The faith which is not founded on revelation, must remain 
destitute of any firm assurance. — 23 : 5. 

These extracts are a sufficient endorsement of the 
Christian faith. Gibbon's disbelief in the natural im- 
mortality of the soul may have been one cause of the 
complaints against him. His shafts do not seem to have 
been directed against true religion, but against its coun- 
terfeit, — the men and institutions that took the name 
of Christ, but had a spirit wholly at variance with His, 
as the following brief extract will show. 

The zeal of the Christian sects was embittered by hatred and 
revenge; and in the kingdom of a suffering Messiah, who had 
pardoned his enemies, they aspired to command and persecute 
their spiritual brethren. — 57 : 17c 

87. Whitefield and Wesley. — No other two men 
have ever exerted so strong an influence on the religious 
life of England as did John Wesley and George White- 
field. They were the founders of Methodism, both in 
England and in America. Whitefield was without a 
rival in pulpit eloquence and field preaching. Immense 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 119 

crowds, sometimes numbering not less than twenty 
thousand people, gathered to listen to his wonderful dis- 
courses. When it was known that he was to preach in 
a place, people would come before daylight with lanterns, 
and wait for hours, in order to secure a place near enough 
to hear him. He visited America seven times, and 
finally died at Newburyport, Massachusetts. 

Wesley also had wonderful powers of eloquence and 
persuasion, with the additional advantages of being a 
great organizer. He continued his work of traveling, 
preaching, and organizing till he was eighty-eight years 
old. He had traveled three hundred thousand miles, 
and preached about forty thousand sermons. He lived 
to see the little band of students, known as Methodists 
at Oxford, increase to a church numbering in the aggre- 
gate not less than eighty thousand members ; and it has 
since increased to about eighteen millions. 

The writings of Whitefield were tame when com- 
pared with his preaching. Wesley wrote much, and 
fairly well. It is not on account of their writings that 
these men have been introduced here, but because of 
their influence upon the thought and character of the 
English race, and the indirect effect thus produced upon 
its literature. 

88. Horace Walpole (1717—1797), — This man of 
elegant leisure would scarcely have been known in the 
literary world but for his letters and memoirs. Son of 
the great statesman, Sir Robert Walpole, and twenty- six- 
years a member of Parliament himself, he had rare 
opportunities for becoming acquainted with public men 
and the affairs of State. His lively correspondence threw 



120 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

sidelights upon many of the maneuverings of statecraft, 
and at the same time afforded vivid pictures of the 
manners and doings of society. His letters were replete 
with "wit, gaiety, shrewd observation, sarcasm, cen- 
soriousness, high life, and sparkling language." 

He was neither an orator nor a statesman ; but he 
was a shrewd observer, and amused himself by recording, 
in secret, his opinions of his contemporaries, and the 
impressions which they made upon him. 

Walpole 's chief writings were his "Catalogue of 
Royal and Noble Authors, " "Anecdotes of Painting in 
England," "Castle of Otranto, " "Historic Doubts" as 
to the character and person oi Richard III, and " Mem- 
oirs of the Court of George II." He was acute rather 
than profound ; but the animation of his style and his 
ingenious modes of expression make his works amusing, 
if not entertaining. 

89. Edmund Burke (i 729-1 797). — Burke, one of 
Britain's greatest orators, was born in Dublin. His 
public career as politician and statesman was honorable 
and sincere. His efforts were directed toward the 
removal of some existing wrong, or the preservation of 
some existing good. He was sagacious and far-seeing, 
often foretelling public events like a seer. He is 
regarded as the most eloquent of all writers on national 
affairs ; and by some he is thought to be the most philo- 
sophical of England's statesmen. 

United with a philosophic turn of mind, Burke had 
a poetic temperament and a rich imagination that fur- 
nished him with a profusion of illustrations, drawn from 
every scene in creation and every field of art. These 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 121 

qualities, united with his earnestness, ardor, and energy, 
made his speeches irresistible, even when they were at 
fault both in argument and expression. He wrote works 
on mental philosophy, but his fame rests upon his 
speeches and his "Reflections on the French Revo- 
lution. " 

90. James Thomson (i 700-1 748). — We will now 
go back to the poets. First in the attempt to restore 
poetry to its normal state was James Thomson, who 
took natural scenery as the theme of his best poems. 
Pope was thirty-two years older than Thomson, and had 
become famous before Thomson began to write. They 
were firm friends, and although their poetical tastes 
differed widely, Pope gave some valuable suggestions 
which Thomson gladly accepted ; for he realized that 
he was deficient in those artistic touches which Pope 
knew so well how to bestow. 

Thomson was an ardent lover of nature, and so sin- 
cere was he in his devotion, that it has been said that 
to love nature is synonymous with loving Thomson. 
"The Seasons" and the "Castle of Indolence" are the 
best works which this author produced. The first 
dwells upon the varying landscape and the rural life of 
England, as presented during the four seasons of the 
year. It must be a dull imagination that is not quick- 
ened by seeing how much beauty and sweetness, — how 
much of divine agency, — -a poet's eye can discover in 
ordinary objects. He teaches the truthfulness of the 
gifted Russian's remark, that the less one knows, the 
greater is the contempt he feels for the associations and 
occupations of common life. 



122 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

The " Castle of Indolence" is more highly imagina- 
tive, and more elegant in finish than "The Seasons," 
but it scarcely brings us so near the great heart of Him 
who has given us the objects and operations of nature 
as a means of cultivating pure tastes and a healthy tone 
of character. 

91. Thomas Gray (1716-1771).— The "Elegy 
Written in a Country Churchyard" would have made 
Gray famous, even if he had written nothing else ; 
indeed, he is admired chiefly for that production rather 
than for his odes or any of his other more stately pieces. 
The "Elegy" is simple, natural, and easily understood 
by all. It appeals to every human heart, while his 
more pompous and classic poems are appreciated only 
by the few. It is the universality of the " Elegy " that 
makes it great, — makes it a part of real literature. In 
this poem the author exemplifies the principle he once 
expressed in a letter to a friend. He says, "As to 
description, I have always thought that it made the 
most graceful ornament of poetry, but never ought to 
be made the subject." We are not surprised, then, to 
find some sentiment or reflection growing out of his 
descriptions. He tells us not only what he sees, but 
also what the scene suggests to him ; thus pleasing and 
instructing at the same time. 

92. William Collins (1721-1759). — Collins was 
a poet of refined tastes and a vivid imagination. Like 
Gray, he wrote but little ; yet he wrote that little well. 
When sad, and almost wrecked by misfortunes and dis- 
couragements, he was met by Johnson, who noticed 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 123 

that in his travels he was carrying the New Testa- 
ment. In reply to Johnson's look of surprise, Collins 
said, "I have but one book, but it is the best." His 
poetry abounds in figures ; but the figures are appro- 
priate and readily interpreted. His "Ode to the Pas- 
sions, " and the one on "Evening" are among his best. 
The few lines that follow may serve to illustrate the 
purity and lucidity, but not the boldest imagery of his 
composition. 

How sleep the brave who sink to rest, 
By all their country's wishes blest. 
When Spring, with dewy ringers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallowed mold, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung, 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay, 
And Freedom shall a while repair, 
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there. 

93. Oliver Goldsmith (i 728-1 774). — Among the 
most prolific and most versatile writers of the century 
was Oliver Goldsmith. He was poet, naturalist, histo- 
rian, biographer, essayist, dramatist, story-teller, moral- 
ist ; and in all was equally successful. Eminent critics 
give him the credit of writing the best poem, the best 
novel, and one of the most delightful comedies of the 
period. Of his style, it is said that, ' ' Nothing could 
be more natural, simple, and graceful." Indeed the 
charm of his writings lies, to a great extent, in this 



124 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

fascination of style. At one time Dr. Johnson said 
of him, ' ' He is now writing a natural history, and will 
make it as agreeable as a Persian tale." 

For the periodicals of the day he wrote one hundred 
and twenty-two " Chinese Letters," as they were called. 
They have since been published under the title of a 
" Citizen of the World." Most of them purport to be 
written by a Chinese traveler in Europe to his friends in 
the far East. Thus Goldsmith finds opportunity to 
exercise his wit and good-natured satire against the 
foibles and inconsistencies of European customs, prin- 
ciples, and manners. 

The "Traveler," the "Deserted Village," the 
"Hermit," and "Retaliation" are the most admired 
of his poems. Of the "Traveler" it was said that 
it was "without one bad line." By most readers the 
' ' Deserted Village " is liked even better than the ' ' Trav- 
eler. " The "Hermit" is one of the most simple as 
well as one of the most touching poems ever written. 
The "Retaliation" is a fine example of keen satire 
free from hate or ill-will. 

Of the "Vicar of Wakefield," one of his best prose 
productions, critics speak in terms of the highest praise. 
They say that the diction is " chaste, correct, and ele- 
gant ; " and that it " inculcates the purest lessons of 
morality and virtue." 

With all these rare gifts, Goldsmith was lamentably 
deficient in powers of conversation, in prudence, and 
sometimes in self-restraint. He was generous to a fault, 
and had warm friends among the best and wisest of 
men ; but with their love they were forced to mingle 
pity that one with so sound a head and so good a heart 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 125 

should not be able to take better care of himself. Gold- 
smith's influence upon the literature of the day was salu- 
tary. By its perfect naturalness it did much to aid in 
redeeming literature from an artificial, vapid style, and 
in bringing it back to a normal condition. 

94. Dr. Beattie (1735-1803). — James Beattie was 

a Scotch schoolmaster, who, when introduced to the 
king, feted and flattered by great wits and scholars, 
urged by the dignitaries of the Church of England 
to take orders, and promised other high preferments, 
declined all honors, and returned to his humble labors. 
And what had he done to merit such attentions ? — He 
had written an " Essay on Truth," without any thought 
of making himself famous, but simply to defend the 
Scottish church against the bold skepticism of Hume, 
the historian. 

Neither the gift of expression nor the intellectual 
powers of Beattie were equal to those of Hume ; but his 
pious intentions, warm enthusiasm, and poetic imagery 
won him many readers. The work was extravagantly 
praised, and enjoyed for some time a popularity greater 
than its real literary merits deserved. 

Beattie was more at home in poetry than in philo- 
sophical argument. His best poem is "The Minstrel." 
It can scarcely rank among great poems ; but it seems 
as fresh to-day as when it was written, — an unmis- 
takable proof of its universality and genuineness. The 
author's personality is traceable throughout the poem, 
for his "gentle, fervent spirit breathes in every line." 
The modest simplicity of his unpretentious language is 
shown in the extract that follows. 



126 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 



IMPARTING TO A BOY THE FIRST IDEA OF A SUPREME BEING, 

He had reached his fifth (or sixth) year, knew the alphabet, 
and could read a little ; but had received no particular informa- 
tion with respect to the author of his being, because I thought he 
could not yet understand such information, and because I had 
learned, from my own experience, that to be made to repeat words 
not understood, is extremely detrimental to the faculties of a young 
mind. In a corner of a little garden, without informing any person 
of the circumstance, I wrote in the mold, with my finger, the three 
initial letters of his name, and sowing garden cresses in the furrows, 
covered up the seed, and smoothed the ground. Ten days after, 
he came running to me, and with astonishment in his countenance, 
told me that his name was growing in the garden. I smiled at the 
report, and seemed inclined to disregard it ; but he insisted on my 
going to see what had happened. "Yes," said I carelessly, on 
coming to the place ; "I see it is so ; but there is nothing in this 
worth notice; it is a mere chance; " and I went away. He followed 
me, and taking hold of my coat, said with some earnestness: " It can- 
not be mere chance; somebody must have contrived matters so as 
to produce it." I pretend not to give his words or my own, for I 
have forgotten both; but I give the substance of what passed 
between us in such language as we both understood. " So you 
think," I said, "that what appears so regular as the letters of 
your name cannot be by chance ? " " Yes," said he with firmness, 
" I think so." " Look at yourself," I replied, " and consider your 
hands and fingers, your legs and feet, and other limbs; are they 
not regular in their appearance, and useful to you ? " He said 
they were. "Came you then hither," said I, "by chance?" 
" No," he answered; "that cannot be; something must have made 
me." " And who is that something ? " I asked. I had now gained 
the point I aimed at; and saw that his reason taught him — though 
he could not so express it — that what begins to be, must have a 
cause, and that what is formed with regularity must have had an 
intelligent cause. I therefore told him the name of the Great 
Being who made him and all the world, concerning whose adorable 
nature I gave him such information as I thought he could in some 
measure comprehend. 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 127 

95. William Cowper (1731-1800). — Cowper 

was of noble lineage. His sensibilities were so delicate 
as to be easily jarred. At school he suffered much from 
the rudeness of coarse natures. Even in manhood he 
shrank from public life, and declined every position that 
could bring him in contact with contentious factions or 
ambitious rivals. Greed for gold, the longing for fame, 
the struggle for position, — all these seemed deplorable 
weaknesses to him, and he looked upon them with a feel- 
ing akin to contempt. His love of natural scenery, of 
animals, and of domestic enjoyments is manifest in all 
his writings. 

From his retirement, Cowper looked out upon the 
mad strivings of the world, not with the eye of a cynic, 
nor the cold look of a philosopher, but with sad regrets 
that men should waste their energies in the pursuit of 
things, which, if obtained, would prove as unsatisfying 
as the apples of Sodom. As a moralist, he was faithful, 
yet not stern. As a satirist, he was keen without being- 
bitter. Those who look upon his writings as the pro- 
ductions of a disordered mind, or the morbid effusions of 
a hypochondriac, should compare his sentiments with 
those expressed in the New Testament. It would be 
hard to find in all the annals of literature a writer whose 
views are so wholly in keeping with the teachings of the 
lowly Nazarene. 

Although averse to the so-called scheming of states- 
men, Cowper was a genuine patriot. Few men have so 
strong a love for country, or so warm a sympathy with 
the afflicted or oppressed. In language, Cowper had 
the rare gift of adaptation, suiting his words to the 
theme, and to the mood he meant to produce; and this 



128 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

he did without sacrificing purity or propriety of expres- 
sion. In interest and in finish, his "Task" and later 
poems are much superior to those written earlier. He 
is regarded as the prince of letter writers. 

Perhaps this brief notice of a man so true to nature, 
to mankind, and to God, could not close better than by 
the following extract from Chambers's Cyclopedia : — 
1 ' We have greater and loftier poets than Cowper, but 
none so entirely incorporated, as it were, with our daily 
existence — none so completely a friend — our com- 
panion in woodland wanderings, and in moments of seri- 
ous thought — ever gentle and affectionate, even in his 
transient fits of ascetic gloom — a pure mirror of affec- 
tions, regrets, feelings, and desires, which we have all 
felt or would wish to cherish. Shakespeare, Spenser, 
and Milton are spirits of ethereal kind. Cowper is a 
steady and valuable friend, whose society we may some- 
times neglect for that of more splendid and attractive 
associates, but whose unwavering principle and purity of 
character, joined to. rich intellectual powers, overflow 
upon us in secret, and bind us to him forever. " 

96. Robert Burns (i759- l 796). — "Burns came 
as a potent auxiliary or fellow worker with Cowper, in 
bringing poetry into the channels of truth and nature. 
There was only about a year between the 'Task' and 
'The Cotter's Saturday Night. ' " "He is as literal as 
Cowper. The banks of the Doon are described as faith- 
fully as those of the Ouse; and his views of human life 
and manners are as real and as finely moralized. " " His 
whole soul was full of the finest harmony. So quick and 
genial were his sympathies that he was easily stirred into 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 129 

lyrical melody by whatever was good and beautiful in 
nature. Not a bird sang in a bush, nor a burn glanced 
in the sun, but it was eloquence and music to his ear." 
"The arch humor, gaiety, simplicity, and genuine feel- 
ing of his original song, will be felt as long as l rivers roll 
and woods are green. ' They breathe the natural char- 
acter and spirit of the country. . . . Wherever the words 
are chanted, a picture is presented to the mind ; and 
whether the tone be plaintive and sad, or joyous and 
exciting, one overpowering feeling takes possession of the 
imagination. The susceptibility of the poet inspired him 
with real emotions and passions, and his genius repro- 
duced them with the glowing warmth and truth of 
nature." "No poet is more picturesque in expression. 
This was the result equally of accurate observation, 
careful study, and strong feeling. His energy and truth 
stamp the highest value on his writings." — Chambers. 

Of Burns, Mr. Taine says, ' ' At last, after so many- 
years, we escape from measured declamation, — we hear 
a man 's voice, and what is better still, we forget the 
voice in the emotion which it expresses, — we feel this 
emotion reflected in ourselves, we enter into relations 
with the soul. " 

Such words of praise .seem extravagant, yet they are 
undoubtedly sincere. Burns, at his best, is a charming 
poet. Morley says of him that Nature made him great- 
est among lyric poets. Such of his poems as ' ' The Cot- 
ter 's Saturday Night," "The Mountain Daisy," "The 
Mouse's Nest," and others that might be named, claim 
the unhesitating admiration of all who can appreciate 
true poetic sentiment. Some of his poems are less happy 
in their subjects, and less chaste in their allusions. The 



130 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

irregularity of the poet 's character and course in life 
cannot but sadden the hearts even of those who delight 
in his poetry. A man who was less susceptible to every 
influence and whose passions were less intense might 
have resisted the temptations which overcame Burns, 
but he could never have put into words such exquisite 
delicacy of sentiment and feeling. Burns had a noble, 
generous spirit, and sincerely mourned his own lapses in 
conduct. In one of his letters he says, — 

I have been this morning taking a peep through, as Young 
says, " the dark postern of time long elapsed; " and you will easily 
guess 'twas a rueful prospect: what a tissue of thoughtlessness, 
weakness, and folly ! My life reminded me of a ruined temple; 
what strength, what proportion, in some parts, what unsightly 
gaps, what prostrate ruins, in others. I kneeled down before the 
Father of Mercies, and said: "Father, I have sinned against 
heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy 
son." I rose eased and strengthened. I despise the superstition 
of a fanatic, but I love the religion of a man. 

In another letter he comments upon the peculiar 
impressions made upon sensitive minds by some ordinary 
scenes in nature. In speaking of himself, he says, — 

I have some favorite flowers in spring, among which are the 
mountain daisy, the harebell, the foxglove, the wild brier-rose, 
the budding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang 
over with particular delight. I never hear the loud, solitary 
whistle of the curlew in a summer noon, or the wild mixing 
cadence of a troop of gray plovers in an autumnal morning, with- 
out feeling an elevation of soul like the enthusiasm of devotion 
or poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be owing ? 
Are we a piece of machinery, which, like the ^Eolian harp, pas- 
sive, takes the impression of the passing accident ? Or do these 
workings argue something within us above the trodden clod ? I 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 131 

own myself partial to such proofs of those awful and important 
realities, — a God that made all things, .' . , and a world of 
weal or woe beyond death and the grave. 

97. Fiction-Writers. — The leading fiction-wri- 
ters of the century were Daniel Defoe, Samuel Richard- 
son, Laurence Sterne, Tobias George Smollet, and Henry 
Fielding. Defoe has already been noticed. Although 
they were eagerly devoured a century and a half ago, 
there are now but few who would care to take time to 
read "Captain Singleton," " Clarissa Harlowe, " "Tom 
Jones," "Humphrey Clinker," or " Tristram Shandy. " 
But the writings of these men have a value in that they 
enable one who is studying the progress of civilization 
to understand the manners and customs which then pre- 
vailed in the middle and lower ranks of society, — classes 
which the historian too often overlooks. There were in 
these fictions many touches of genius, some true charac- 
ter-painting, and many genuine croppings-out of those 
peculiarities of human nature that are much the same 
in all ages of the world. It is also true that these 
authors aided in giving language a more easy and 
natural flow. 

With all due credit to their genius, and their useful- 
ness in their day ; it must be said that, for the most 
part, they keep their readers too much in the company 
of coarse characters, seeming to forget that ' ' Evil com- 
munications corrupt good manners." At present they 
are interesting to those only who wish to study them as 
waymarks in the development of our literature. 





































































oo 



























































~ 



On 


























" 


































<u 
































bo 
































5 

































































O 





















NO 








































oo 


































in 



































































<N 




' 
























in 










t> 
















































































■<r 































































































u 






^ 


;£ 






































-J3 








t^ 









































































































































1) 





















































-3- 




















































n 










On 





















































R. 




































_• 






V 






















































bfl 
























































o 




















































O 




















r~- 


































<u 














































































































V-} 

























































V 


c 








































































































































































< 


















































NO 




o ' 






















































B 












































3 





" 


rt >-l 














































3 




























































































































































£ 




a. 




































> 


ON 

o 










•n-sBf 




































N 


3 
















































a- 












_; 



00 
































nj 


3 












■■ l " H 




























- 


} 














<u 
























4- 


V 


3 






















































rt 























vO 






























v 


3 


vO 






























a 


> 






















U 








V 

NC 


5 
3 


n 


3 

3 
























































vO 






























no 


VO 






























"2 


























^ 


^ 




















_ 








^ 


V 




















c/i **" 








^1 
















. 














i"! 

s ~ 
z.3 

1 


h>2 

< § 

I S 

<^ 


5 
P- 

< w 

y. 
u 

_i 
< 


U 

g'l 

<fcq 


Z 

? ^ 

I! 




< k 

u a 

< ^ 

3g 


II 

« 

o 


s 


z 

o 

C/l 

«| 

72 


■ V 

OS <v> 


Z* 

O 

s 
< 
1-1 


H 

Q ^ 

z ■* 


Z !v 

z w 




























^~ 







[132] 



I 






I I 



&."■£ 

>£ 



z ■"£ 

o *. 

z^ 




z 

3! 


i- 


< 




a 

CO -v 


J. 

3 


1^ 


2 


si 




in 
Z 

K 

3 — - 

K< I 


— ig 


M-jj 


55 


C w 


tr. S> 


5* 


<3 --^ 
9-~ 




O | 


a ~ 
z b 

3 si 






^£ 


< 


H 


X? 


c/l 


£ 


>> 




t£ 


<'l° 
-^ 


| 


g, 






a 




^_ 


O 

H 




4 






k 





[133] 



CHAPTER EIGHT. 



The Nineteenth Century. 

98. Gradual Development. — The literature of 
the nineteenth century is not marked by any conspicuous 
periods or changes. Whatever development there may 
have been, has been gradual rather than periodic. This 
is especially true of the last fifty or sixty years. For 
this reason our outline of the history of English language 
and literature is near its close. The literary products of 
this century may be of greater value to us than those of 
all the centuries that have preceded it; but the influ- 
ences that have been at work are general rather than 
particular, and are therefore not easily traced to their 
source. 

99. Dissemination. — There has been a wide dis- 
semination of gifts. The century has given us some 
writers, it is true, whose genius has raised them above 
their contemporaries ; but in the main it may be said 
that our literary wealth lies in the excellent contribu- 
tions of the many rather than in the dazzling produc- 
tions of the few. The history of literature is like that 
of the race. At first it has its giants, — its chiefs, on 
whose prowess rests the result of every issue ; but as 
civilization advances, it comes to depend more and more 
on the intelligence, the united loyalty to truth, of the 
great brotherhood of mankind. 

[i34] 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 135 

100. The Lake Poets. — Wordsworth, Coleridge, 
and Southey are called the Lake Poets, or the Poets of 
the Lake School. They were closely associated in their 
lives and in their writings, especially Wordsworth and 
Coleridge, who dwelt near Lake Windermere, in West- 
moreland, and sometimes assisted each other. 

Wordsworth was the leading spirit, and held to the 
theory that any subject might be made poetical, and 
that the ordinary expressions of every-day life were 
wholly adequate to the requirements of poetic diction. 
This extreme view was a reaction from the stilted and 
artificial forms so much affected and admired in the 
preceding century. Time and experience, however, 
modified both his views and his practise, until he and 
his associates exerted a strong influence toward weaning 
the public taste from exaggerated and false ideals of 
character and emotion. 

101. William Wordsworth (1770-18.50) is 

one of the best of our modern English poets. His 
great theme was the influence of nature upon the char- 
acter of men. He has been called a worshiper of 
nature, but he worshiped her only as an expression of 
the character of God. He looked upon nature as a 
means by which God would communicate with mankind. 
Some of his poetry seems almost unworthy of so great 
a mind. In many passages his meaning is obscure to 
inexperienced readers. He is one of those poets whom 
we learn to love more and more as we become better 
acquainted with them. Some of his shorter poems are 
beautiful in their simplicity. His greatest poem is 
"The Excursion." It seems unnecessarily drawn out, 



136 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

and yet it is only a fragment of what he intended 
to complete if his eighty years of almost uninterrupted 
leisure had been long enough for the purpose. 

The following estimate of "The Excursion " is found 
in Chambers's Cyclopedia: — "In 1 8 14 appeared 'The 
Excursion,' a philosophical poem in blank verse, by far 
the noblest production of the author, and containing 
passages of sentiment, description, and pure eloquence 
not excelled by any living poet ; while its spirit of 
enlightened humanity and Christian benevolence — 
extending over all ranks of sentient and animated 
being — imparts to the poem a peculiarly sacred and 
elevated character." 

102. Samuel T. Coleridge (1772-1834) was a 
man of varied and versatile accomplishments. He 
wrote on politics and metaphysics, is described as a most 
charming preacher, and as a generous critic of character 
and composition has had few equals. Instead of degra- 
ding a man and his productions, he left them the better 
for the handling. He was magnanimous enough to treat 
an error kindly, and to show a warm appreciation of 
every excellence. 

In conversation and in public speaking, he was clear, 
concise, and highly entertaining, showing no hesitation 
in setting forth the most abstruse reasoning ; but in wri- 
ting, especially in his poems, he is often obscure. He 
had an active imagination, but had a tendency to leave 
a conception, or even an entire poem, unfinished. 
" The Ancient Mariner" is thought to be his best poem. 
" Christabel " is replete with weird fancies, but the 
meaning and motive are uncertain, at least they are 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 137 

so to most readers. As a man, Coleridge loved truth, 
freedom, nature, mankind, and God ; and his writings, 
when rightly understood, are characteristic of their 
author. 

103. Robert Southey (i 774-1 843) was a volumi- 
nous writer and a profound student of books. Had he 
studied books less, and men more ; had he taken a more 
active part in the affairs of life, his writings would have 
been better adapted to the needs of humanity. His 
prose style is good, and many of his shorter poems are 
excellent. In his long poems we find those extrava- 
gances which seemed to be a part of his character. In 
them he gives free flight to his imagination, painting 
pictures, which, though not lacking in originality or 
splendor, are too gorgeous for earth, but not pure enough 
for heaven. All through life he took extreme views, 
never quite losing the character which his uncle gave 
him, who declared that he had every good quality which 
a young man needed, except prudence and common 
sense. Notwithstanding his own inconsistencies, South- 
ey's judgment on other men's writings is held in high 
respect. His detestation of war and oppression is 
strongly set forth in some of his poems, and it is to be 
regretted that such sentiments are not more universal. 

104. Sir Walter Scott (.1728-1 832).— Scott was 
one of the most prolific, as well as one of the most 
popular, of authors. He has been called the "Great 
Magician of the North," so captivating were his writings 
to nearly all classes of readers. As a story-teller he has 
scarcely an equal. On being asked his opinion of one 



138 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

of Scott's books, Lord Holland said, "Opinion ! we did 
not one of us go to bed last night — nothing slept but 
my gout." Fourteen hundred thousand volumes of his 
works were sold in France alone. They were entertain- 
ing without being vulgar ; dignified without being dull. 
Most of them pertained to feudal times and the border 
wars between England and Scotland. The author him- 
self was an honest, hearty, genial Scotchman, noted for 
his hospitality and kindness, and beloved by all his 
neighbors and contemporaries. 

Scott's poems have made the scenery of Scotland 
famous for all time. A distinguishing feature of his 
verse is its freedom from complications. Prose itself 
is not more easy of interpretation. A reader not famil- 
iar with poetic forms can understand him without diffi- 
culty ; yet his lines are far from being prosy. They 
have an unpretending beauty that wins upon the reader 
more and more. They are sometimes comprehensive, 
as when he recounts, in four short lines, the experiences 
and misfortunes of a long day's hunt. 

This morning, with Lord Moray's train, 
He chased a stalwart stag in vain, 
Outstripped his comrades, missed the deer, 
Lost his good steed, and wandered here. 

The greater part of Scott's prose was hastily and 
often carelessly written. Its rhetorical improprieties 
are frequent, and his long, badly-arranged sentences 
would become tiresome if it were not for the absorbing 
interest of his theme. The reading of his poetry has a 
tendency to simplify and improve one's literary style, 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 139 

but it is hard to say as much for his prose. His writings 
have a good moral tone, and tend to promote a sense of 
honor, and a manly dignity of character. 

105. Lord Byron (George Gordon) (1788-1824). 
— Byron was one of the most gifted of poets. When 
his productions began to appear, they startled the world. 
Scott, on being asked why he did not write any more 
poems, said, "Byron beats me." The ease, graceful- 
ness, and power, with which he wrote, seemed marvel- 
ous. His dignity and naturalness of style can hardly 
be overpraised ; and few have portrayed scenes and 
character so vividly. But running through nearly all 
his poems, is a morbid self-consciousness, painful to 
some readers and injurious to others. He had a way of 
parading his own unhealthy and misanthropic reflections, 
of posing as the martyr of an unpropitious fate, — the 
victim of unprecedented woes. In truth, his loneliness 
arose from the haughtiness of his pride, his sorrows 
from the thwarting of an ungoverned will. He plucked 
the rose, then cursed the fates because it withered in 
his hand. His unhappiness was, without doubt, real, 
and moves us to pity, even while we censure him. 

Some of his writings contain allusions unfit for perusal, 
and unworthy the mind of a poet. When he chose a 
right theme, no one could write better. Most of his 
shorter poems are excellent, as well as considerable 
portions of his longer productions. Here and there are 
passages that shine with a luster all their own. As a 
whole, however, the writings of this great genius are 
unsafe reading for youth, and unprofitable at any time 
of life. 



140 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

106. Charles Lamb (i 775-1 834), — The writings 
of this peculiar and very original author are much 
admired by poets and other men of genius. He im- 
parts a certain grace and beauty to the most common 
objects, because he sees in them so many interesting 
features undiscovered by others until pointed out by 
him. He was a close observer. Nothing escaped his 
notice. Thus he perceived relations, and received sug- 
gestions, which, when told in his quaint way, interested 
as much by their novelty as by their genuineness. A 
critic has said that one reason why Lamb wrote so 
charmingly was because he wrote directly from his own 
feelings. He did not have to go far for his subjects : he 
found them in the common walks of life. When placed 
in the alembic of his mind, ordinary objects, scenes 
and events showed qualities, and assumed properties, 
unknown before. Though of a poetical temperament, 
his prose is more delightful than his verse. Condemned 
for the most part to live a solitary life, he yet wrote for 
children in a very interesting style. He was acquainted 
with the Lake Poets, was on intimate terms with 
Coleridge, and was highly prized by a choice circle of 
friends. 

107. Percy Bysshe Shelley (1 702-1 822). — 
Although Shelley was a skeptic, so great a poet cannot 
be passed by unnoticed. His poetical genius was of the 
highest order. Macaulay ranked his gifts among those 
of the "great ancient masters." He had an exalted 
idea of the poetical art. In one of his essays he says, 
" Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments 
of the happiest and best minds." 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 141 

But Shelley's flights of fancy are too ethereal for 
general reading. To most minds a great share of his 
poetry seems vague and intangible. It is like a dis- 
solving view, — brilliant, but evanescent. Yet the 
beauty of his style was such that, next to Wordsworth, 
he is thought to have had the greatest influence on the 
poets who immediately succeeded those of his time. As 
a man, he was temperate in habits, gentle, affectionate, 
and generous in his disposition, sincere in his opinions, 
and benevolent in his intentions. He was driven into 
skepticism by the injustice and cruelty practised upon 
him at school, and countenanced — : or at least allowed — 
by those who made a high profession of Christianity. 
His writings contain lofty conceptions of purity and 
beauty ; but while we love the spirit of one who held 
such kindly feelings to all mankind, we must admit that 
his misconceptions of truth have marred his poetry in 
some parts, and made it advisable to read only judicious 
selections from his works. 

108. John Keats (1795-1821). — This promising 
young poet died before he was twenty-six years of age. 
He died of consumption ; but his death was undoubtedly 
hastened by the unjust and cruel criticisms on his long- 
est poem — "Endymion." The contemptuous tone of 
an article in The Quarterly Review was what affected 
young Keats so seriously. Viewed in the light of the 
present day, it is the criticism itself that appears con- 
temptible. 

There is in parts of " Endymion " a vagueness and a 
want of sequence ; the ornamentation is sometimes pro- 
fuse, if not extravagant ; there may be passages too 



142 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

intense ; but, taken as a whole, it leaves a delightful 
impression. It seems almost incredible that one so 
young could write so well. The reader who cannot dis- 
cover the pulse-beats of poetical genius in the lines of 
Keats, is certainly not to be envied. 

In the unfinished poem "Hyperion" are grander 
passages and stronger imagery than can be found in 
"Endymion." Byron regarded it as sublime. 

One thing, however, is a source of constant regret, — 
that so many of these poets should have wasted their 
heaven-born gifts on subjects so unworthy. Why should 
they, or we, worship at the shrine of those old myths 
and fables — the dim shadows of a twilight age — when 
so much grander themes present themselves in the clearer 
light of the present, and in our contemplation of the 
future ? Why should we forever be turning our eyes 
backward ? There are grander issues before us than can 
be found in the dusky records of the past. The airy 
castles which fancy builds upon foundations of obscurity 
and mystery may create a wide-eyed wonder in children, 
or serve to soothe the restless pulse of an overworked 
brain; but they should not absorb the working hours, or 
divert the thought, of a vigorous mind. 

109. Bishop Heber (i 783-1 826).— Dr. Reginald 
Heber was cut off by death at the age of forty-two. 
Although he was a scholar and a poet, he did not devote 
his life to literary pursuits. His missionary spirit was so 
ardent that he was appointed Bishop of Calcutta. He 
devoted all his energies to the task before him, but did 
not long endure his labors. He was found one morning 
dead in his bath, from a stroke of apoplexy. 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 143 

Before leaving school he wrote prize poems, and one 
of them, "Palestine," is considered the best ever pro- 
duced at his university. His sentiments will live forever 
in the well-known missionary hymn beginning with — 

From Greenland's icy mountains, 
From India's coral strand. 

The following lines are from his poem on Palestine: — 

Reft of thy sons, amid thy foes forlorn, 

Mourn, widowed queen! forgotten Sion, mourn! 

Is this thy palace, sad city, this thy throne, 

Where the wild desert rears its craggy stone ? 

While suns unblest their angry luster fling, 

And wayworn pilgrims seek the scanty spring ? 

Where now thy pomp, which kings with envy viewed ? 

Where now thy might, which all those kings subdued ? 

No martial myriads muster in thy gate; 

No suppliant nations in thy temple wait; 

No prophet-bards, the glittering courts among, 

Wake the full lyre, and swell the tide of song: 

But lawless Force and meager Want are there, 

And the quick-darting eye of restless Fear, 

While cold Oblivion, 'mid thy ruins laid, 

Folds his dank wing beneath the ivy shade. 

110. Charles Wolfe (1791-1823). — Wolfe was 
born in Dublin. Though a humble curate, and not a 
professional poet, he made himself forever famous by 
one short poem of only thirty-two lines. He probably 
did not dream that he was doing anything great ; but, to 
use the words of an able critic, the lines are written 
"with such taste, pathos, and even sublimity, that 
his poem has obtained an imperishable place in our 
literature." 



114 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
The sods with our bayonets turning, 

By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 



We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 

And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they '11 talk of the spirit that 's gone, 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 
But little he '11 reck, if they let him sleep on, 

In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done, 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 145 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone — 
But we left him alone with his glory ' 

111. Mrs. Hemans (1793-1835). — Felicia Doro- 
thea Browne wrote much, and was highly praised. She 
indeed wrote many touching and beautiful things, but, 
as Sir Walter Scott said, there were too many flowers 
for the fruit ; too much for the ear and fancy, and 
not enough for the heart and intellect. 

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 

.They grew in beauty, side by side, 

They rilled one home with glee ; 
Their graves are severed, far and wide, 

By mount, and stream, and sea. 

The same fond mother bent at night 

O'er each fair sleeping brow ; 
She had each folded flower in sight — 

Where are those dreamers now ? 

One, 'midst the forest of the West. 

By a dark stream is laid ; 
The Indian knows his place of rest, 

Far in the cedar shade. 

The sea, — the blue lone sea, — hath one : 

He lies where pearls lie deep ; 
He was the loved of all, yet none 

O'er his low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where Southern vines are dressed 

Above the noble slain : 
He wrapped his colors round his breast, 
On a blood-red field of Spain. 
10 



146 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

And one — o'er her the myrtle showers 

Its leaves, by soft winds fanned ; 
She faded 'midst Italian flowers — 

The last of that bright band. 

And parted thus they rest, who played 

Beneath the same green tree, — 
Whose voices mingled as they prayed 

Around one parent knee ! 

They that with smile lit up the hall, 
And cheered with song the hearth, — 

Alas for love, if thou wert all, 
And nought beyond, O earth ! 

112. William Hazlitt (i 778-1 830).— Hazlitt was 
one of the most prolific miscellaneous writers of the 
early part of the century. He wrote on metaphysical 
subjects, produced a "Life of Napoleon," and furnished 
notes of travel ; but he is most noted as a literary critic. 
He possessed undoubted ability, and his style is fresh, 
if not brilliant. He was, however, too much affected 
by prejudices. Perplexities and opposition warped his 
judgment. As a consequence, his opinions, though 
clearly expressed, are not always reliable. 

113. Henry Hallam (1778-1859). — Hallam was 
pre-eminently a historian, whether writing on literature, 
civilization, or the affairs of State. His works are 
remarkable for candor and accuracy. Lord Macaulay, 
a contemporary historian, says, "Mr. Hallam is, on the 
whole, far better qualified than any other writer of our 
time for the office which he has undertaken. He has 
great industry and great acuteness. His knowledge is 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 14:7 

extensive, varied, and profound. His mind is equally 
distinguished by the amplitude of its grasp, and by the 
delicacy of its tact. . . . His work is eminently judicial. 
The whole spirit is that of the bench, not that of the 
bar. He sums up with a calm, steady impartiality, 
turning neither to the right nor to the left, glossing over 
nothing, exaggerating nothing, while the advocates on 
both sides are alternately biting their lips to hear their 
conflicting misstatements and sophisms exposed. On a 
general survey, we do not scruple to pronounce the 
4 Constitutional History ' the most impartial book that 
we have ever read." 

114. Thomas Babington Macaulay (1800- 
1859). — This statesman, essayist, historian, and poet 
has a wide reputation. His popular work on the his- 
tory of England was written later than that of Hallam, 
but is not superior to it, except in style. Macaulay is 
noted for his vigorous use of English. Milman, an emi- 
nent writer of a little later period, describes Macaulay's 
style in these words : — ' * Its characteristics were vigor 
and animation, copiousness, clearness ; above all, sound 
English, now a rare excellence. The vigor and life were 
unabating ; perhaps in that conscious strength which 
costs no exertion, he did not always gauge and measure 
the force of his own words. . . . His copiousness had 
nothing tumid, diffuse, Asiatic ; no ornament for the 
sake of ornament. As to its clearness, one may read a 
sentence of Macaulay twice to judge of its full force, 
never to comprehend its meaning. His English was 
pure, both in idiom and in words, — pure to fastidi- 
ousness ; . . • every word must be genuine English, 



148 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

nothing that approaches real vulgarity, nothing that had 
not the stamp of popular use, or the authority of sound 
English writers, nothing unfamiliar to the common ear." 

115. Henry Hart Milman (1791-1868). — This 
eminent writer is said to have had " one of the best-bal- 
anced and most highly-cultivated intellects." His chief 
works were "The History of the Jews," "The History 
of Christianity," and "The History of Latin Christian- 
ity." He wrote poetry as well as prose, and for years 
was Professor of Poetry at Oxford. It is as a historian, 
however, that he has achieved the greatest fame. He 
had ' ' a rare faculty of sifting and determining the exact 
value of evidence, a mind -singularly free from prejudice, 
and almost unerring in its power of penetrating to the 
truth. He moves with the most perfect ease beneath 
the immense weight of his acquisitions, never allowing 
them to interfere with his independence of thought." — 
Backus. 

116. Washington Irving (1 783-1 859). — One of 
the most agreeable, as well as one of the most excellent, 
prose-writers of the century was Washington Irving. 
His fame is world-wide. When a mere boy, he began to 
write, signing himself Jonathan Oldstyle. His articles 
attracted attention at once, and there was considerable 
speculation with respect to the identity of the writer. 
From this time on for more than half a century he con- 
tinued to write, with ever-increasing delight to his read- 
ers. In the words of the poet Bryant : ' ' Since he began 
to write, empires have risen and passed away ; mighty 
captains have appeared on the stage of the world, per- 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 149 

formed their part, and been called to their account ; 
wars have been fought and ended which have changed 
the destinies of the human race." 

Amid all the turmoil and strife of his times, he 
maintained a calm, equable tone. His writings are 
always restful. ' ' We read, and are quieted and con- 
soled. " The sunshine of a genial temper rests on all 
his work. His pathos is a gentle shadow, which never 
deepens into gloom. His landscape is perennial. Sum- 
mer showers may fall upon it, but the • ' drear November 
rains," the fierce storms, the tempests, — these are 
reserved for more desolate climes. 

His writings concern and interest all mankind. Their 
universality is phenomenal. " In his pages we see that 
the language of the heart never becomes obsolete ; that 
truth, and good, and beauty — the offspring of God — 
are not subject to the changes which beset the empire of 
man." — Bryant. These are the characteristics of true 
literature, — a literature that will interest all who may 
yet read it, as it now interests us. 

Irving's humor is charming, and capable of being 
sustained indefinitely. Sir Walter Scott wrote to him 
thanking him for his ' ' Knickerbocker's History of New 
York," and saying that in reading it, he and his family 
had laughed until their sides were literally sore. No 
sarcasm is more potent than that of Irving, and yet it is 
so good-natured as hardly to give offense. 

The English people were greatly pleased with his 
sketches of rural life in England. When he visited that 
country, they received him with flattering attentions ; 
but he says they seemed greatly astonished to find that 
an American could write fairly good English. 



150 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

He steadily refused to accept any public office, pre- 
ferring a quiet life at home, but finally accepted the 
appointment of minister to Spain. While in that coun- 
try he made so diligent use of his time that he gathered 
material for some of the finest works that have ever 
enriched our literature. His "Moorish Chronicles," 
"Alhambra," "Conquest of Granada," and "Life of 
Columbus " grew out of his sojourn in that historic 
land. His "Astoria," "Tour on the Prairies," and 
"Bonneville's Adventures" give a picturesque view of 
our far West in the early part of the century. His 
"Mahomet and His Successors" is as entertaining as a 
tale of fiction, and much more profitable reading. A full 
list of his works cannot be given here. Indeed they 
constitute quite a library. One of his latest works was 
the "Life of Washington." A young American could 
hardly find better historical reading than this work and 
the " Life of Columbus." 

117. William Paley (1743-1805). — In taking 
notice of the religious writers who exerted an influence 
during the first years of the century, it is necessary to go 
back a few years. Irving lived and wrote till past the 
middle of the century. Dr. William Paley died just as 
Irving was beginning to write for publication ; so his 
literary labors ended just when those of the great Ameri- 
can were bearing their first fruits ; but not so his influ- 
ence : that will never die. Paley was a plain man, 
noted for his originality and for the remarkable clearness 
of his intellect. The following description of the man 
is so terse and strong, and withal so realistic, that it 
could hardly be improved : — 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 151 

' ' There was no doubt or obscurity either about the 
man or his works : he stands out in bold relief among 
his brother-divines, like a sturdy oak on a lawn or par- 
terre — a little hard and cross-grained, but sound, fresh, 
and massive — dwarfing his neighbors with his weight 
and bulk, and his intrinsic excellence. 

He shall belike a tree that grows 

Near planted by a river, 
Which in his season yields his fruit, 

And his leaf fadeth never. 

So says our old version of the Psalms with respect to the 
fate of a righteous man, and Paley was a righteous 
man, whose mind yielded precious fruit, and whose 
leaves will never fade." 

118. William Wilberforce (1759-1833).— This 
good man exerted a wide influence in bringing about 
reforms, both in social life and in the laws of the 
nation. He urged the necessity of vital piety, and his 
life was a daily illustration of the principles he taught. 
He keenly appreciated the evils of human slavery, and 
employed his talents, time, and influence against it. 
Being a member of Parliament, he labored for twenty 
years to get a law passed to abolish the slave-trade, 
and at last he succeeded. 

119. Dr. Adam Clarke (1 760-1 832).— Dr. Clarke 
wrote a " Commentary on the Bible," a " Bibliograph- 
ical Dictionary," and various religious treatises. He was 
noted for his earnestness and faithfulness as a preacher 
and missionary, and for his profound oriental scholar- 



152 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

ship. He was a native of Ireland, and among other 
missionary labors he visited the Shetland Islands, and 
established a mission there. His ' ' Commentary " 
abounds in the most useful and reliable information. 

120. Dr. Chalmers (1780-1847).— Thomas Chal- 
mers, D. D. and LL. D., was a voluminous writer, and 
a pulpit orator of great fame. Uncouth in appearance 
and disagreeable in manner, he still had an astonishing 
power to chain an audience and stimulate thought. 
This wonderful influence is said to have depended 
chiefly on his energy and his intense earnestness. He 
united with these qualities an inexhaustible fund of illus- 
tration, but his language is seldom in itself either pleas- 
ing or elegant. One who heard him says that the magic 
of his eloquence lay in his concentrated intensity, which 
made his hearers forget his awkwardness, and wrapped 
them in his own enthusiasm. When Canning heard 
him, he was at first disappointed, but was soon led to 
exclaim, "We have no such preaching in England." 
He was a worker as well as a preacher. He looked after 
the physical as well as the spiritual wants of the poor, 
not only those among his flock, but also those of the 
whole city. 

Chalmers united the learning of the philosopher with 
the imagination of the poet. His works were many and 
extensive. He wrote on theology, the evidences of 
Christianity, moral philosophy, education, political 
economy, and astronomy, besides writing sermons, 
essays, and papers concerning the best methods of 
caring for the poor. Extracts from his writings will 
be found in Part Second of this work. 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 153 

121, Hannah More (1745-1833). — This remark- 
able woman was the daughter of an English school- 
master. She was educated by her father. At the age 
of sixteen she wrote a pastoral drama called "The 
Search after Happiness." It soon went through three 
editions, and the next year she published another. 
When about twenty-eight, she took up her abode in 
London, in the house of Garrick the famous actor. 
Here she met Dr. Johnson, who was greatly pleased 
with her. She also associated with Burke the orator, 
Sir Joshua Reynolds the great painter, and with most of 
the literary celebrities of the day. She met with success 
on every hand. One of her plays brought her nearly 
four thousand dollars. 

But in the midst of all this prosperity, and while 
enjoying a degree of popularity almost unequaled, she 
relinquished this gay life, that she might devote all her 
energies to doing good. Conceiving the idea of turning 
fiction- and play-writing to the advancement of religion, 
she wrote a volume of sacred dramas. 

Her plans for good were far-reaching. She addressed 
her efforts to the high as well as to the lowly. One of 
her prose volumes was entitled "Thoughts on the 
Importance of the Manners of the Great to General 
Society ; " another was " Estimate of the Religion of the 
Fashionable World." She wrote a number of tales, 
published monthly under the title of The Cheap Reposi- 
tory, and they soon reached a circulation of a million 
copies of each number. So she kept on in her work 
until she was eighty-eight years old. She made about 
one hundred and fifty thousand dollars on her publica- 
tions ; but she knew what to do with her means. She 



154 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

and her maiden sisters had a home together, and carried 
on extensive and successful schemes of benevolence. 
Not far from their home was a wild tract of country in 
which the people were very poor and very ignorant. 
Hannah and her sister philanthropists worked for the 
education and enlightenment of these needy people until 
at their annual festivals more than a thousand children 
met, and were entertained at the expense of their bene- 
factors. At her death, Hannah left fifty thousand dollars 
to charitable institutions. It would require a volume to 
do justice to her life and labors. 

122. Thomas Hood (1798—1845). — Humor and 
pathos are twin sisters. They walk hand in hand. 
When one shows her form, the other lies in her shadow, 
ready to take her place at a moment's notice. While 
humor plays on the lips in a smile, pathos moistens the 
eye with a tear. While humor dances lightly from 
tongue or pen, pathos sits in the heart with downcast 
eye, ready to assert herself as soon as a solitary moment 
shall give her an opportunity. ' ' L' Allegro " and ' ' II Pen- 
seroso " spring from the same mold ; they are blossoms 
from the same root, — a tender and sensitive spirit. Such 
a spirit was that of Thomas Hood. He is most widely 
known as a humorist; but his pathos is even more exqui- 
site than his humor. Take for instance the " Song of 
the Shirt," "The Bridge of Sighs," and the few lines 
appended to this paragraph. His humor is free from 
everything coarse or vulgar, and is, in a sense, refined. 
The few of his poems that are neither humorous nor 
pathetic, are fine examples of what he might have done 
in loftier themes than he has usually undertaken. 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 155 

THE DEATH-BED. 

We watched her breathing through the night, — 

Her breathing soft and low, — ■ 
As in her breast the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seemed to speak, 

So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 

Our fears our hopes belied: 
We thought her dying when she slept, 

And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came dim and sad, 

And chill with early showers, 
Her quiet eyelids closed: she had 

Another morn than ours. 

123. Alfred Tennyson (i 8 10-1892).— Lord 
Tennyson is regarded as one of the greatest poets of 
modern times. His style is clear ; his lines are often 
exquisitely beautiful ; yet their flow is so easy and 
natural as to give the impression that they fell sponta- 
neously from his pen. This is the perfection of art, — to 
do the best things with no apparent effort. He wrote 
two dramas, — "Queen Mary" and "Harold." Next 
to "Queen Mary," his longest, and one of the most 
unsatisfactory of his poems, is " The Princess." " Enoch 
Arden " has been much admired, both for its style and 
for its human interest. " Aylmer's Field " is less sim- 
ple, but contains an important lesson. The "Idylls of 
the King" and other poems pertaining to the times of 



156 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

King Arthur and his Table Round are among the most 
graceful of his productions. By some "In Memoriam " 
is considered Tennyson's noblest effort. It is an elegiac 
poem of nearly three thousand lines, written as a trib- 
ute of affection to the memory of Arthur Henry Hallam, 
son of the eminent historian, and the chosen friend of 
Tennyson in his earlier years at Cambridge. A distinct- 
ive feature of this long poem is that the interest is so 
well sustained throughout. 

Many of his subjects are undoubtedly mythical, and 
the narratives are in themselves of small account ; but 
they afford a thread on which to string gems of thought 
and pearls of beauty. They cultivate an esthetic taste, 
and serve to charm a weary hour — " to soothe the rest- 
less pulse of care." In all his writings there is a chaste- 
ness, a certain elevation of thought, a moral tone, and 
a human fellowship that puts the author in touch with 
his readers. 

' ' His verse is the most faultless in our language, 
both as regards the music of its flow and the art dis- 
played in the choice of words ; but the pleasure which 
his poetry gives, springs largely from the cordial interest 
he displays in the life and pursuits of men, in his capac- 
ity for apprehending their higher and more beautiful 
aspirations, and in a certain pervasive purity and strength 
of spiritual feeling." — International Cyclopedia. 

12^. American Poets. — Contemporary with 
Tennyson and with one another were a number of our 
most distinguished American poets. Since they lived 
and wrote in our own day, and in our own land, they 
are too well known to need any extended notice : we 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 157 

know them and love them, "one and all." The names 
of Bryant, Longfellow, Whittier, Lowell, and Holmes, 
are household words, honored and revered no less than 
those of Washington and Lincoln. Their poems are 
read and appreciated by all classes, and are equally 
delightful in all stages of life, — from childhood to age. 
They are a gospel of truth, simple enough to be under- 
stood by the lowest, and worthy the contemplation of 
the highest. Unlike most of the great British poets, 
they did not live in retirement and make authorship 
a profession. They bore their share of burdens and 
responsibilities, and wrote whenever leisure moments 
gave them opportunity. Not a stain rests upon the 
character of these men, either in public or in private 
life, and the tone of their writings is what would be 
expected from such a source. 

125. William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878).— 

For considerably more than half a century Mr. Bryant 
was engaged in severe and almost continuous editorial 
labor. Even while traveling in foreign lands, he wrote 
letters descriptive of his journeys, instead of embracing 
the opportunity to cultivate his poetic genius. Yet 
amid all the responsibilities of his busy life, he found 
time to write poetry of which his country may well be 
proud. The evenness of his entire course is a marvel to 
all who study his history. He began to write poetry in 
childhood. At the age of thirteen he wrote on profound 
subjects. In his nineteenth year he wrote " Thanatop- 
sis," one of the best of his productions. When eighty- 
two he wrote "The Flood of Years," also one of his 
best. In the sixty-four years that intervened between 



158 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

the writings of these two poems, there had been no 
weakening of his poetic power. His sympathies were 
enlarged as the years went on. The crystal clearness 
of his mind remained the same, but there was greater 
depth of human emotion. At the age of seventy he 
made a translation of the "Iliad," which has been 
ranked as the best and most attractive yet produced. 
His last effort was the delivering of a public address 
in Central Park, New York City. The address was 
remarkable for its eloquence, although the speaker was 
then in his eighty-fourth year. This wonderful continu- 
ance of undiminished mental power was due to temper- 
ate habits and daily physical exercise. 

Bryant's poetry may be classed as reflective. No one 
has ever delineated natural scenery with greater truth- 
fulness, but the peculiarity of Bryant's nature-studies is 
that he always connects them with human life. They 
lose none of their charm, but gain dignity, by a treatment 
which teaches how to read the will of the Creator in his 
works. The extreme gravity which characterized his 
boyhood poems, was somewhat relieved in later life by a 
more cheerful imagination. The same vigor, the same 
thoughtful earnestness, remained ; but there was a lighter 
step and a less somber garb. Bryant 's poems are often 
less attractive to young readers than are those of some 
other writers ; but the more they are read, the better 
they are liked. They always leave a good impression. 
There are no sudden flashes of genius ; the feelings are 
not wrought up to an unhealthy pitch of excitement; 
but there is an enjoyment of a deeper and- more lasting 
kind. The impressions return again and again, until 
their influence becomes permanent. 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 159 

126. Henry W. Longfellow (i 807-1 882). — This 
eminent scholar, teacher, gentleman, and poet is a 
universal favorite. He is the poet of the household. It 
has been said that his poems are read at more firesides 
than are those of any other poet the world over. Perhaps 
he does not penetrate so deeply into the hidden thoughts 
and emotions of the few as do some others ; he is not so 
intense ; but to the many he seems a familiar friend. 

He seems more than others to satisfy that universal 
yearning of the human heart to be understood. Here is 
some one at last who knows how we feel, and can delight 
us by putting in words what we could never tell. As in 
his daily life he could be agreeable to all whom he met, 
so in his poetry he seems to know what will amuse, what 
will soothe, and what will give satisfaction, if not happi- 
ness. Although at heart no more genial than many 
others, his manner often finds access where others could 
not enter. It may be safely said that his writings bear 
the true test of literature,. — they never grow old: the 
more they are read, the better they are enjoyed. Ameri- 
cans do not need to be told what Longfellow has written. 

127. John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892).— 
Some have said that Whittier was born a poet. There 
was poetic inspiration in everything he met, whether in 
human life or the scenery of nature. These conceptions 
so filled his soul that he could scarcely speak or write on 
any subject without being poetic. No letters could be 
more easy and charming than his ; yet the traces of the 
poet were readily discovered. He was a man of deep 
moral and religious convictions, as well as of the 
most tender susceptibilities. He was the friend of the 



160 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

oppressed, the champion of the slave, the defender of 
truth and right. His style was like the man, — plain, 
but strong ; simple, yet beautiful in its truthfulness and 
in the delicacy with which it deals with the higher 
sensibilities of the soul. The influence of his writings 
is like that of the man — uniformly good. 

128. James Russell Lowell (1819-1891). — Like 
Longfellow, Lowell had the rare faculty of making many 
friends. Whether he wrote poems, produced essays on 
literature, or served as minister to a foreign court, he 
was received with hearty good fellowship. But he 
attracted special attention as a humorist. His " Biglow 
Papers," written in the Yankee dialect, have afforded 
merriment to many who did not have the discernment to 
see the undercurrent of genuine human sympathy, pure 
sentiment, and worthy motive. Lowell was a thorough 
student of literature, and his essays on various authors 
show critical acumen. 

129. Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894).— 
Dr. Holmes was an able and a successful physician. 
For about thirty-five years he was professor of anatomy 
and physiology in the medical school of Harvard Univer- 
sity. He was famous for wit, energy, and practical 
good sense. He was one of the founders of the 
Atlantic Monthly, and many of its most racy articles 
were from his pen. His poems are spirited and original, 
his novels are practical sermons, his essays and memoirs 
show a clear head and an unbiased mind. His eminent 
conversational powers made him the life of every social 
circle of which he was a member But he is most noted 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 161 

for his " Table Talks," and for his geniality as a friend. 
The "Table Talks" were published as the "Autocrat 
of the Breakfast Table," "Professor at the Breakfast 
Table," " Poet at the Breakfast Table," and "Over the 
Tea Cups." Few authors have been more sincerely 
mourned than was Holmes when he died. 

130. Nathaniel Hawthorne ( 1804- 1864). — 
Hawthorne was one of the most accomplished of Ameri- 
can prose-writers. He was slow in gaining recognition, 
just as he is sometimes a little slow in gaining the favor 
of his readers; but he improves upon acquaintance, and 
is now universally recognized as a master in delineating 
certain phases of character. His "Twice-told Tales" 
and " Mosses from an Old Manse " afford good culture 
in esthetic as well as literary taste. Some regard him 
as the greatest genius among American authors. 

131. Charles Dickens (18 12-1870). — Contem- 
porary with Hawthorne, Lowell, Tennyson, Whittier, 
Longfellow, and Bryant, was Charles Dickens, one of the 
best and greatest of fiction-writers. His works are not 
to be associated with the ordinary novel. Their general 
tendency is to cultivate a mutual feeling of good-will and 
appreciation among people of all classes ; to lead the 
rich to relieve the needy, to teach the poor not to make 
themselves unhappy by envying the rich, but to court 
contentment by making the most of the enjoyments 
which they possess. He shows that the rich are often 
the most unhappy of mankind, and that the poor may 
have joys that all the wealth of the world could not buy 
He wrote with a strong purpose to counteract wrong 



162 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

and oppression, and as a result of his influence, bad laws 
were abolished in England, and not a few evil practises 
were removed. 

132. Harriet Beecher Stowe (1811-1890).— 
Among the writers who have had a powerful influence 
on public events, few hold a higher place than Harriet 
Beecher Stowe. Her " Uncle Tom's Cabin " was the 
wonder of the age. She wrote it in behalf of a down- 
trodden race, and to open the eyes of intelligent people 
to the real character and influence of negro slavery in 
the United States. It was not simply the production of 
a great intellect ; it glowed with the energy of an impas- 
sioned soul, stirred to its depths by sincere love for 
truth and right. Yet with all its terrible earnestness, 
the book was written in a kindly spirit. It laid hold 
upon the consciences of men, and was a strong factor in 
bringing about the freedom of the slaves. Within three 
years, more than a million copies were sold. It was 
read everywhere. People sat up all night to read it. It 
was translated into nearly every language in Europe. 
Mrs. Stowe wrote a number of books, but none of them 
attracted so universal attention as " Uncle Tom's 
Cabin." 

133. Other Distinguished Writers. — Asso- 
ciated with the writers already named, or at least con- 
temporary with them, were many more, equally worthy 
of notice. Some of them shed a mild yet far-reaching 
influence, which may have accomplished as much for 
the good of mankind as that which can be traced to 
more immediate effects. There have been the poets — 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 163 

Mr. and Mrs. Browning ; the historians — Prescott and 
Bancroft in America, and Buckle and Froude in Eng- 
land ; there have been the philosophers — John Stuart 
Mill and Herbert Spencer ; there have been the scien- 
tists and naturalists — Hugh Miller, Charles Darwin, 
and Thomas Henry Huxley. There have been Emerson, 
Ruskin, and Arnold ; Thackeray, Kingsley, and Bayard 
Taylor ; George Eliot and Harriet Martineau ; De 
Quincey and William Howitt ; Webster, Carlyle, Chan- 
ning, and a host of others that we cannot even mention 
here. They are of our own day, hence do not need an 
extensive notice. Extracts from their writings will 
appear in Part Second. 

134% Conclusion. — In this Part First the endeavor 
has been to trace the influences that have brought our 
language and literature to its present state. It would 
require volumes to do the subject justice, hence much 
has had to be omitted Perhaps it is as well ; since this 
work is intended for those who have not time for so 
close and critical a study. It contains the essentials for 
a good general understanding of the development of our 
literature down to the writers of this present generation. 
The present value of an author's work must not be esti- 
mated from the prominence given him in this outline. 
An invention or a work of art may have been very 
important when first produced, yet be of little account 
now, because better things have taken its place. Just 
so it is with the works of some authors. There are 
things, however, that have been written for all time. 
They can never grow old. The truths they teach are 
always present : they are universal and eternal. 



QUESTIONS ON STUDIES 



English and American Literature. 



INTRODUCTORY. 

i. In studying the literature of a nation, with what do we 
become acquainted ? 

2. In such writings what do we have revealed to us ? 

3. What are some of the influences exerted by daily association 

with such thoughts and motives ? 

4. What result is finally produced ? 

5. Why is it not thought best to take up much space in this 

book with remarks on the personal traits of authors ? 

6. Why is it that this study of the habits and peculiarities of 

writers is not always profitable ? 

7. What is it that we want of an author ? 

8. What will we aim to study and take to ourselves ? 

9. What is the original source of all light and truth ? 

10. How has He revealed himself ? 

11. How are some fitted to be truth interpreters ? 

12. What is their special mission ? 

13. Illustrate the fallibility of genius. 

14. What alone can be absolutely perfect ? 

15. What other writings may be profitable ? 

16. Explain the relation of history to literature. 

17. On account of this relation, what becomes necessary in 

tracing the literature of a people ? 

18. What does Part First of this book contain ? 

19. To what will Part Second be devoted ? 

[164] 



QUESTIONS ON PART FIRST. 165 

PART FIRST. 

HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 



CHAPTER ONE. 
Origin of the English Nation and Language. 

20. Explain the first peopling of the British Isles. 

21. Describe the Roman occupation ? 

22. What was the origin of the Teutons ? 

23. When did they make their way into England ? 

24. What other country did they invade ? 

25. From what did the name England originate ? 

26. Give a brief outline of English history down to the time of 

the Norman invasion. 

27. Give a history of the Normans. 

28. When, and under whom, did they invade England ? 

29. Describe the attitude of the Norman and the Saxon inhabit- 

ants of England. 

30. What is the nature and origin of the English language ? 

31. What was the nature of our First English ? 

32. How long was it the prevailing language in England ? 

33. What was the fate of the Keltic tongue ? 

34. W T hat effect was produced on the language by the Danish 

and Roman occupations ? 

35. After the Norman invasion what became the fashionable lan- 

guage in England ? 

36. What language was still spoken by the common English 

people ? 

37. How long did the two languages remain distinct ? 

38. Describe the origin of the language which the Normans 

brought into England ? 

39. What has it given to our modern English ? 

40. What is the character of the old English words ? 

41. To what extent do they prevail ? 

42. Describe the effect and use of Latinized words ? 



166 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

43. What advantages are derived from this composite nature of 

our language ? 

44. How is the character of our language set forth in the extract 

from the Cyclopedia of English Literature ? 



CHAPTER TWO. 
Beginnings of English Literature. 

Early Writings of Keltic Origin. 

45. Describe the character of the Kelts. 

46. What literary tastes did they manifest at a very early 

period ? 

47. What is their record with reference to accepting and pro- 

moting the Christian religion ? 

48. What does Mr. Morley say of the character of these people ? 

49. What does he say of the influence of this race upon the 

character and literature of the nation ? 

50. What is the record concerning their early poetry ? 

51. When did Caedmon write, and what was his theme ? 

52. Write an account of Caedmon's experiences and work. 

53. Judging from the extracts herein given, what are some of the 

leading qualities of Caedmon's writings? — Simplicity, 
directness, and homely strength. 

54. Describe the peculiar versification of his lines. 

Earliest Literature of Teutonic Origin. 

55. Describe the character and customs of the Teutonic settlers 

in England. 

56. What rude epic poem was sung by their gleemen ? 

57. What is thought to have been its origin ? 

58. Compare the " Beowulf" with the poems of Caedmon. 

59. To what influence may this difference be traced ? 

60. Give the theme of the "Beowulf" as described in the 

extract. 

61. What qualities of style characterized the poem ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART FIRST. 167 

62. What qualities have the Teuton, the Kelt, and the Norman 

severally contributed to our language ? 

63. What has been the result ? 

64. Write a paraphrase of the extract from " Beowulf.'' 



CHAPTER THREE. 
From Csedmon to Chaucer. 

First-English Period. 

65. During the four hundred years from Caedmon to Chaucer, to 

what was learning mostly confined ? 

66. Describe the only system of schools then existing. 

67. By what other cause was intellectual culture withheld from 

the people ? 

68. Give an account of Bede and his work. 

69. What was his best work ? W T hat his most extensive ? 

70. What was King Alfred obliged to do during the first part of 

his reign ? 

71. Why was not this a lost experience ? 

72. What was his final success ? What did he do for the English 

people ? 

73. How are his writings regarded ? 

74. Tell how they were received by the people. 

75. Why is it that only a few of the writings of that age have 

come down to us ? 

76. Why is it that a mere sketch of the literature of this period 

has been deemed sufficient ? 

The Transition Period. 

77. What was the effect of the Norman Conquest ? 

78. Describe the effect in detail. 

79. What was the origin of the people called the Normans ? 

80. How did they come to speak a different language from the 

Teutons who settled in England ? 



168 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

8 1. What was the character of the people thus formed ? 

82. What state of feelings existed for many years between the 

Norman French and the Saxon English ? 

83. What course did the Normans pursue toward the Saxons ? 

84. What causes conspired to root out the language of Saxon 

English, and make that of the Norman French universal ? 

85. What prevented such a result ? 

86. What finally brought about a blending ? 

87. How firmly had the original English language become estab- 

lished among educated people before the Norman Con- 
quest ? 

88. How was it among the uneducated classes ? 

89. What was the effect of the Norman tongue upon both 

these classes ? 
go. How long did these conditions seem to grow worse rather than 

better ? 
g 1. Was it a new language that emerged from this chaos ? 

92. For what are the writings produced during this transition 

period chiefly interesting ? 

93. Describe the " Brut" written by Layamon. 

94. Describe the "Ormulum." 

95. How long did this transition period continue ? 

96. For whom only does it afford an interesting study ? 

97. Of what does this period mark the close ? 

98. What begins with the writings of the latter part of the 

fourteenth century ? 
99„ How has the language been affected by the five centuries 
that have elapsed since that time ? 



CHAPTER FOUR. 
The Awakening. 

100. State causes that made it impossible for the Norman inva- 

sion to restrain English thought for a long period. 

101. What had exerted a potent influence upon the English people 

and their literature ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART FIRST. 169 

102. How had the English language, as well as the English mind 

and character, been enriched ? 

103. How had the Church of Rome hindered this salutary 

influence ? 

104. How did the exasperation of the people finally express itself ? 

105. Who was foremost among those who wrote against the abuses 

practised by the emissaries of Rome ? 

106. Describe the "Vision of Piers Plowman." 

107. What influence had this simple poem ? 

108. What was the name and nature of a book written a few years 

later by the same author ? 

109. Who had then become the most powerful champion of truth ? 
no. Describe him. 

in. Give an account of his work. 

112 How did the Church of Rome try to put a stop to the ener- 
getic work of Wycliffe ? 

113. What effect did these persecutions have upon Wycliffe's 

course ? 

1 14. What caused many of his influential friends to desert him ? 

115. What did he finally come to think concerning the permanent 

enlightenment of the people ? 

116. How was this great work accomplished? 

117. What facilities existed at that time for disseminating this 

precious truth among the people ? 

118. How did they appreciate this first Bible in their own tongue? 

119. Who was the most polished and versatile writer of the four- 

teenth century ? 

120. What may be said of his writings, and of the difficulty in 

reading them ? 

121. Describe his advantages. 

122. What was the character of his writings ? 

123. What may be said in particular of his descriptions of 

nature ? 

124. What spirit characterizes his writings, and how does it affect 

his readers ? 

125. What are some of the objectionable features of his writings ? 

126. What prompted Sir John Mandeville to spend so many years 

in visiting foreign countries ? 



170 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

127. What were his facilities for traveling ? 

128. How did he become acquainted with distant nations ? 

129. Describe his experiences on reaching home. 

130. What were some of the arguments produced by him to show 

that the world is spherical ? 

131. How long was this before the discovery of America by 

Columbus ? 

132. What opinion of Mandeville's writings is given in the Inter- 

national Cyclopedia ? 

133. How was the fourteenth century distinguished from those 

that had just preceded it ? 

134. Who have been presented as the representative authors of 

the century ? 

135. What has been the chief object of presenting them in this 

outline ? 

136. What may be given as one reason why so many people of 

England could not read at that time ? 

137. Show how the literary productions of the century were of 

such a nature as to inspire in all classes of people a desire 
to read. 



CHAPTER FIVE. 

From Wycliffe and Chaucer to Hilton. 

138. How long a period is covered by this chapter ? 

139. From what event is it reckoned, and with what event does it 

close ? 

140. Who were the representative writers of the period that 

immediately preceded this ? 

141. Which of them was the greatest genius ? 

142. Which was the most successful philanthropist ? 

143. For what purpose did each of them write ? 

144. What may be said of the writings and writers of the next 

two hundred years ? 

145. What remarkable change took place toward the close of the 

sixteenth century ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART FIRST. 1 71 

146. Who are here taken as the representative men of this 

period ? 

147. From what causes did poetry, during this period, steadily 

improve in ease and grace of expression ? 
148 When was the printing-press first used on the continent of 
Europe ? 

149. When, and by whom, was the first book printed in England ? 

150. How extensively did he print ? 

151. What effects would the use of the printing-press naturally 

produce upon the people and the literature of the nation ? 

152. What did the art of printing especially encourage ? 

153. How was this manifested ? 

154. What great work was set on foot at this time for the benefit 

of the common people ? 

155. Who are most prominent among these translators of the 

Bible ? 

156. What may be said of the character and conduct of Henry 

VIII ? 

157. Describe the persecutions and fate of Tyndale ? 

158. Why did the English need a new translation of the Bible ? 

159. What was the character of Tyndale s translation ? 

160. What effect has it had upon the English language, even 

down to the present day ? 

161. What two men about this time undertook to improve the 

tone of English literature ? 

162. What seems to have been their ultimate aim ? 

163. How was Sidney cut short in his career ? 

164. What did Spenser write at this time ? 

165. Describe the plan of the poem ? 

166. What does Southey say of Spenser ? 

167. What did Hallam think of him ? 

168. What may be said of the motive and aim of Spenser ? 

169. What was the whole poem meant to be? 

170. When freed from the allegory, what does Gloriana represent? 

171. Of what is Prince Arthur an emblem ? 

172. How has this great poem been received ? 

173. How did it rank in the time it was written ? 



172 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

174. What tendency of the age was exemplified in the "Faerie 

Queen " ? 

175. How had the church employed scenic representations ? 

176. Describe the moral plays that had succeeded the miracle 

plays ? 

177. What bold advance did Spenser make in the use of scenic 

representations ? 

178. Describe the rise and the object of the drama. 

179. What was its influence, and why ? 

180. Where were the worst effects seen, and from what causes? 

181. What effect did the drama have upon the English lan- 

guage ? 

182. What may be said of the better class of dramatic writers of 

this period ? 

183. What must be admitted concerning some of the others ? 

184. What tribute must be given to the course and character of 

Shakespeare ? 

185. How did he value his own writings ? 

186. How are they generally regarded ? 

187. What blemishes do they contain ? 

188. Who was the greatest philosopher of this period ? 

189. What did he set forth in the clearest manner ? 

190. What were some of the principles that he laid down ? 

191. What mistake did he show that philosophers had been 

making ? 

192. What did he say about methods of investigation ? 

193. What hindered Bacon in accomplishing all that he under- 

took ? 

194. Why did he covet wealth and influence ? 

195. What effect have his writings produced ? 

196. What was the character of Richard Hooker ? 

197. What was the strongest element in his greatness ? 

198. How did he manifest his goodness ? 

199. How did he rank among literary men ? 

200. What was his record at school ? At the university ? 

201. What did his merits as a preacher secure for him ? 

202. How did he acquit himself, in this important position ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART FIRST. 173 

203. Why did he beg to be removed to some quiet parsonage ? 

204. What does Hallam say of his writings ? 

205. How do they appear to the modern reader ? 

206. Give the substance of the paragraph quoted from him. 



CHAPTER SIX. 

Literature of the Seventeenth Century. 

207. During what period did the drama monopolize the genius of 

the English people ? 

208. Describe the decline of the drama. 

209. Contrast the course of the idlers and pleasure-seekers with 

that of the more sober-minded. 

210. What may be said of the authors of this period ? 

2ii; Why are the prose- writings of this period presented first ? 

212. Describe the peculiar course of Chillingworth. 

213. What does he say about these vacillations of faith ? What 

does Lord Clarendon say of him ? 

214. What was his most important literary production ? 

215. In this book what does he say of the use of force in matters 

of conscience ? 

216. What does he say of the use of reason in determining one's 

religious belief ? 

217. How does he show the folly and wickedness of dueling ? 

218. How does Jeremy Taylor rank among the religious teachers 

of his time ? 

219. Describe his style. 

220. What may be said of his love of nature ? 

221. How did this love affect his speaking and writing ? 

222. Repeat his description of domestic felicity. 

223. How does he describe the rise and progress of sin ? 

224. What advice does he give concerning the choice of studies ? 

225. What should be one's greatest care ? 

226. What thought does he quote from Origen ? 

227. What was the nature of Milton's prose-writings ? 



174 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

228. What does he say of the power of truth to defend itself? 

229. What does he say of the strength of truth ? 

230. Of what does truth have no need ? 

231. What may be said of Milton's ideas of education ? 

232. What does he say when writing about the study of languages ? 

233. Describe the character and manners of Sir Matthew Hale. 

234. What were his maxims concerning conversation ? 

235. Describe the character and attainments of Isaac Barrow. 

236. In what did his eloquence chiefly consist ? 

237. What can be said of his language, and of his mode of inter- 

esting his readers ? 

238. Give a synopsis of the extract in which he shows the contrast 

between concord and discord. 

239. How does he show the value of industry ? 

240. Describe the character and style of Izaak Walton. 

241. On what subjects did he write ? 

242. Which of his works has attracted most attention ? 

243. What are the peculiarities of this book ? 

244. What were some of the reflections awakened in him by the 

songs of the birds ? 

245. How does he find cause for gratitude and praise in the daily 

blessings which the poorest and humblest of mankind may 
enjoy ? 

246. How does he beget content in himself, and increase his confi- 

dence in the power, wisdom, and providence of God? 

247. What may be said of the birth and advantages of John 

Bunyan ? 

248. What did he do that has given him a place among the best 

authors in the land ? 

249. Under what circumstances was the book written ? 

250. While in prison, what was he obliged to do to keep his 

family from want ? 

251. What does Macaulay say concerning the originality of Bun- 

yan's book, and of the manner in which it was received by 
his friends ? 

252. What does the same writer say concerning the success of 

" Pilgrim's Progress " ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART FIRST. 175 

253. What does he point out as the causes of this success ? 

254. What were critics obliged to grant Bunyan ? 

255. Although deprived of the advantages of schools, what train- 

ing had Bunyan received which fitted him so well for the 
work which he accomplished ? 
2- a Describe the language of ki Pilgrim's Progress." 

257. Why does it reach the hearts of people so surely ? 

258. What does Henry Morley say of it ? 

259. How does Thomas B. Shaw account for Bunyan's remark- 

able gift in language ? 

260. Describe the character and labors of Richard Baxter. 

261. What does he say concerning the cause of his writing so 

much and so rapidly ? 

262. What good qualities cause us to forget the blemishes of his 

style, and to pass leniently over some of his extreme 
views ? 

263. Which of his books is most read at the present time ? 

264. Under what circumstances was it written ? 

265. Which of his works was much liked by Dr. Johnson ? 

266. What may be said of Baxter's sincerity ? 

267. What did Coleridge say of him ? 

268. How did Baxter manifest courage equal to his sincerity ? 

269. How did the judge interrupt him when he attempted to speak 

in self-defense ? 

270. What spirit did Baxter manifest throughout all these per- 

secutions ? 

271. How does he express himself concerning theological con- 

troversies ? 

272. How may Tillotson be compared with Barrow ? 

273. What was the character of his sermons ? 

274. What were some of the adverse effects of this extreme 

familiarity ? 

275. W T hat secured him many friends ? 

276. To what were his efforts directed throughout his public life ? 

277. W^hat does Chambers say of Tillotsoms style ? 

278. What excellences do you notice in the quoted paragraph 

concerning the evidence of a Creator in the structure of 
the world ? 



176 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

279. Repeat his illustrations. 

280. Fulfil the same requirements concerning the other two para- 

graphs quoted from this author. 

281. What is the subject of Milton's great epic ? 

282. What objections do some raise against this apparent exalta- 

tion of the evil one ? 

283. What other feature of this great poem has been unfavorably 

criticized ? 

284. What is the best cure for these objections ? 

285. Does any one think that there was conscious irreverence in 

the mind of Milton ? 

286. What might have exercised some influence over him 

unawares ? 

287. What may be said of his " Hymn to the Nativity " ? 

288. What of "Lycidas" ? 

289. What may be said of the " Mask of Comus " ? 

290. Point out the beauties and excellences in the selections 

herein quoted ? 

291. What may be said of Milton's lofty style ? 

292. What is the character of some of his sentences ? 

293. Who, next to Milton, was the greatest poet of the age ? 

294. Why did he fail to realize the best of which he was capable ? 

295. In what degrading work was his noble genius mostly 

occupied ? 

296. What reputation did this low work earn for him ? 

297. How did Dryden feel about this toward the close of his life ? 

298. When Collier wrote against the immorality of Dryden's plays, 

how did Dryden reply ? 

299. How did Dryden rank as a prose-writer ? 

300. What good things may be said of his poetry ? 

301. What has been said in commendation of Dryden, his poetry, 

and his language ? 

302. What did he say about the free use of foreign derivatives ? 

303. What has John Locke been called ? 

304. How did he differ from some other philosophers ? 

305. What is regarded as his greatest work ? 

306. What was the character of his thought, and of his style 

of writing ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART FIRST. 177 

307. What is the title of another of his valuable works ? 

308. In what terms of extravagant praise does Mr. Shaw speak of 

this work ? 

309. How would a thoughtful reader of the present time be likely 

to regard this estimate ? 

310. What unfavorable criticisms may justly be made upon the 

essay ? 

311. What work of a religious character did he write ? 

312. Why did he have to spend much of his time in foreign 

countries ? 

313. What may be said in praise of Locke's character and life ? 

314. How does he set forth the evils of prejudices ? 

315. What does he prescribe as a remedy ? 

316. Give the substance of his remarks on injudicious haste 

in study. 

317. Describe the character and attainments of Sir Isaac 

Newton. 

318. What great law of nature did he discover ? 

319. How did the discovery affect him at first ? 

320. How did Newton make discoveries in optics ? 

321. What were among these discoveries ? 

322. What has been said concerning the thoroughness of his 

researches ? 

323. How did he treat the Bible, and on what portions of it did he 

write ? 

324. Who were the most noted historical writers of the century ? 

325. What did they write ? 

326. What may be said of the character of Burnet and his 

writings ? 

327. How was Horace Walpole impressed by reading Burnet ? 

328. What writers of considerable note have not been mentioned 

in this brief outline of the literature of the seventeenth 
century ? 
'329. What is the purpose of this outline ? 

330. What would be the effect of entering into details ? 

331. What is the poetry of any period sufficient to do ? 

332. Why do we need something more ? 

12 



178 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

333. How may prose be regarded ? 

334. What must be borne in mind with reference to the chronology 

of the writings described in this chapter ? 

335. What, with reference to the history of the period ? 

336. What will these considerations enable us to understand and 

feel? 

337. What must be kept in mind with respect to the overlapping 

and blending of the writings of one century with those of 
another ? 



CHAPTER SEVEN. 
Literature of the Eighteenth Century. 

338. What may be said of the literature of the eighteenth century ? 

339. To what extent can it be considered here ? 

340. When were the authors born who wrote most and best during 

the first half of the eighteenth century ? 

341. Tell how old some of these writers were at the beginning of 

the eighteenth century. 

342. What distinguished writers followed these, or were contem- 

porary with them ? 

343. With what view have these writers been chosen ? 

344. How is the literature of any period much affected ? 

345. What influences tended to degrade the literature of the period 

now under consideration ? 

346. By what was the same period blessed ? 

347. What may be said of the great body of the people, especially 

those who were remote from London ? 

348. What commotions agitated the country during this century ? 

349. What had been going on during all this turmoil ? 

350. What may be said in praise of Dryden's poetry ? 

351. What change took place in English poetry during the first 

part of the eighteenth century ? 

352. What were its defects ? 

353. What poem of the time was most praised, and what may be 

said of it ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART FIRST. 179 

354. What found no expression in the poetry of this period ? 

355. What salutary effect was finally brought about, and by 

whom ? 

356. What may be said of the mission and influence of the prose- 

writings of this century ? 

357. Tell about the satirists of this period. 

358. How are the writings of Alexander Pope regarded ? 

359- What were the advantages, and what the character, of this 
poet ? 

360. What may be said of his style ? 

361. In what did he excel ? 

362. What must every lover of his poetry regret ? 

363. What general estimate is given of his work ? 

364. What may be said of Joseph Addison and his writings ? 

365. Describe his style. 

366. Which of his productions are most admired ? 

367. What is the tone, and what has been the effect, of his work ? 

368. What may be said of the abilities of Jonathan Swift ? 

369. On what did he depend as a means of curing the faults and 

foibles of society ? 

370. What was the general character of his writings ? 

371. Describe his poetry. 

372. What is considered as the most remarkable production of 

this writer ? 

373. What is the nature of this work ? 

374. How is Swift's style of composition regarded ? # 

375. What was the character of Richard Steele ? 

376. What enterprises did he set on foot ? 

377. Describe the Tatler. 

378. What was its success ? 

379. How were the Tatler and the Spectator enriched ? 

380. How did Steele succeed in writing plays ? 

381. What motive was seen in all his dramatic writings ? 

382. What may be said of Steele's motive and of the need for the 

work he undertook ? 

383. For what was his style remarkable ? 

384. What may be said of his versatility ? 



180 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

385. What are some of the defects of his writings ? 

386. For what may they be praised ? 

387. How extensively did Daniel Defoe write ? 

388. Tell something of his character and experiences. 

389. At what age was he stricken with apoplexy ? 

390. What did every one then suppose ? 

391. What did he accomplish after -that? 

392. What is said of his style and his power as a writer ? 

393. What was he accused of forging ? 

394. What proof has been given of his realistic power ? 

395. For what will he always be remembered ? 

396. Under what disadvantages did Dr. Isaac Watts have to 

labor ? 

397. For what is he best remembered ? 

398. What may be said of the influence of these hymns ? 

399. What were the qualifications of Lord Bolingbroke ? 

400. Describe his style. 

401. What may be said of his reasoning and his influence ? 

402. What must be said of the general character of his writings ? 

403. What was the character of Edward Young ? 

404. What has he produced ? 

405. In what does his poetry abound ? 

406. How are his writings most agreeably read ? 

407. What is the name and character of his most noted work ? 

408. What tendency mars the good effect of this man's writings ? 

409. For what is Bishop Butler distinguished ? 

4io.^Vhat are some of the important points brought out in his 



reasoning 



411. What may be said of his style, and of the popularity of his 

work ? 

412. What was the native place of Jonathan Edwards . 

413. What was his life and character ? 

414. What was his definition of true religion ? 

415. How does he in his writings sometimes restrict this 

definition ? 

416. What has been said of his manner ? 

417. Give a synopsis of the selection taken from his writings. 



QUESTIONS ON PART FIRST. 181 

418. Describe the character and course of Benjamin Franklin ? 

419. What may be said of his writings and his motive for writing ? 

420. For what are his writings to He studied ? 

421. What were some of the important discoveries made by 

Franklin ? 

422. To what extent did Dr. Samuel Johnson influence the 

language and literature of his time ? 

423. What was his greatest work ? 

424. What other important contributions did he make to our 

literature ? 

425. In what do his writings abound ? 

426. In what were they strongly instrumental ? 

427. What did his poetry lack in order to give it the highest 

rank ? 

428. Describe his style. 

429. Who were the leading historians of the eighteenth century ? 

430. How did they rank in talent and literary attainment ? 

431. Describe the style of David Hume. 

432. What destroyed the usefulness of his work as a history ? 

433. Describe the character of William Robertson. 

434. What were the merits of his historical writings ? 

435. What was the greatest work of Edward Gibbon? 

436. What may be said in its favor ? 

437. Of what has he been accused ? 

438. Show from extracts quoted from his writings that these 

accusations are not well founded. 

439. What may have been one cause of the complaints against 

him ? 

440. Against what do his shafts seem to have been directed rather 

than against true religion ? 

441. Who were the founders of Methodism in England and 

America ? 

442. What may be said of the influence exerted by these two men ? 

443. Describe the course of George Whitefield ? 

444. What advantage had Wesley over Whitefield ? 

445. How long did he continue his work ? 

446. What did he accomplish ? 



182 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

447. What name was given to the little band of students that 

joined with him at Oxford in trying to carry out their 
strict views of practical piety ? 

448. How did these Methodists increase during the life of 

Wesley ? 

449. What may be said of the writings of Whitefield ? Of 

Wesley ? 

450. Why have these men been introduced in these pages ? 

451. What gave Horace Walpole a name and place among literary 

men ? 

452. What advantages did he have for becoming acqua'nted with 

public men and the affairs of State ? 

453. What made his letters peculiarly interesting ? 

454. How did he amuse himself ? 

455. What besides letters did he write ? 

456. What estimate is put upon his writings ? 

457. Describe the public career of Edmund Burke. 

458. How does he rank as a writer ? 

459- What may be said of his power of illustration ? 

460. What other qualities combined with these to make his 

speeches irresistible ? 

461. Who was first in the attempt to restore poetry to its normal 

state ? 

462. Describe the relations between Pope and Thomson. 

463. What has been said of Thomson's love of nature ? 

464. What are his greatest works ? 
4.65. What is said of " The Seasons " ? 

466. What is the character of the " Castle of Indolence" ? 

467. What production of Thomas Gray*s contributed most to his 

renown ? 

468. What is the nature of the poem ? 

469. What characteristic of the poem makes it great ? 

470. What principle does this poem exemplify ? 

471. What does he tell us ? 

472. What was the character of Collins as a poet ? 

473. In what does he resemble Gray ? 

474. In what condition was he met by Dr. Johnson ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART FIRST. 183 

475. What did he say to Johnson's look of surprise ? 

476. In what does his poetry greatly abound ? 

477. What may be said of this rather extravagant use of figures ? 

478. What are among his best productions ? 

479. What excellences can you point out in the selection given 

from him ? 

480. What may be said of Oliver Goldsmith as a writer ? 

481. What credit has been given him by eminent critics ? 

482. What has been said of his style ? 

483. What remark was made concerning him by Dr. Johnson ? 

484. What may be said of his Chinese letters ? 

485. Which are the most admired of his poems ? 

486. What high praise has been bestowed upon his " Traveler " ? 

487. What do most readers like better than the "Traveler"? 

488. Describe the "Hermit," the "Retaliation," the "Vicar of 

Wakefield." 

489. What were some of the deficiencies of Goldsmith ? 

490. How did his friends regard him ? 

491. What was Goldsmith's influence upon the literature of 

his day ? 

492. Who was James Beattie ? 

493. How did he show his native humility and good sense ? 

494. What had he done to make himself renowned ? 

495. In what was Beattie inferior to Hume ? 

496. What won him so many readers ? 

497. Where was Beattie most at home ? 

498. What may be said of his poem, the " Minstrel " ? 

499. What breathes in every line of it ? 

500. Tell how Beattie taught his young son that the world and all 

its created wonders could not have come by chance. 

501. Describe the sensitive nature of William Cowper. 

502. How did he look upon the greed for gold, the longing for 

fame, the struggle for position ? 

503. What is manifest throughout all his writings ? 

504. How did he, from his retirement, look out upon the mad 

strivings of the world ? 

505. Describe him as a moralist. As a satirist. 



184 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

506. What should those do who look upon Cowper's writings as 

the productions of a disordered mind ? 

507. What was Cowper's character for patriotism ? 

508. What rare gift of expression did Cowper possess ? 

509. Where are his best writings to be found ? 

510. What estimate of him is given in Chambers's Cyclopedia 

of English Literature ? 

511. What relation existed between the work of Cowper and that 

of Robert Burns ? 

512. How are their writings compared ? 

513. Describe the quick sensibilities of Burns. 

514. What qualities will make his poetry felt throughout all time? 

515. What is said of their power and influence ? 

516. What did his susceptibility do for him ? 

517. How did his genius aid him ? 

518. Of what was his picturesque expression the result ? 

519. What stamped the highest value on his writings ? 

520. How does Taine speak of the writings of Burns ? 

521. How may such praise as the critics have bestowed upon 

Burns seem to us ? 

522. Which of his poems claim unhesitating admiration ? 

523. What may be said of some others ? 

524. What must sadden the hearts of those who most admire 

Burns 's poetry ? 

525. Give a synopsis of the extracts that show his devotional 

nature, and how deeply he regretted his own lapses in 
conduct. 

526. How does he himself wonder at the vivid impressions made 

upon him by natural scenery ? 

527. Who were the leading fiction-writers of the eighteenth cen- 

tury ? 

528. How were their writings received in their day ? 

529. Are there many who would care to read them now ? 

530. For what may their writings still have a value ? 

531. What characteristics of real literature did they possess ? 

532. What effect did they have upon the language ? 
533- What is a great fault in them ? 

534. To whom only should they be interesting now ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART FIRST. 185 

CHAPTER EIGHT. 

The Nineteenth Century. 

535- What has there been peculiar about the development of 
literature during the nineteenth century ? 

536. During what part of the century has this been especially 

true ? 

537. What may be said of the value of the literature of this period ? 

538. Where is its aggregate wealth to be found ? 

539. How is the history of literature illustrated by the history of 

the race ? 

540. Who have been known as the Lake Poets ? 

541. How were they intimately associated ? 

542. Who was the leading spirit among them ? 

543. What was his peculiar theory ? 

544. From what was this extreme view a reaction ? 

545. How were both his views and his practise modified ? 

546. Toward what did he and his associates exert a strong influ- 

ence ? 

547. What is Wordsworth's rank among poets ? 

548. What was his great theme ? 

549. What has he been called ? 

550. How far was this appellation true ? 

551. How did he look upon Nature ? 

552. What unfavorable remarks may be made concerning his 

poetry ? 

553. How does he bear acquaintance ? 

554. What may be said of some of his shorter poems ? 

555. What is regarded as his greatest work ? 

556. What may be said of its extent ? 

557. What estimate of this poem is quoted from a leading author- 

ity ? 

558. Describe the accomplishments and work of Samuel T. Cole- 

ridge. 

559. How was he peculiarly fitted to do good work as a critic ? 

560. Compare his conversation and public speaking with his 

poems. 



186 . HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

561. What unfortunate tendency did he possess ? 

562. Which is thought to be his best poem ? 

563. Describe his " Christabel." 

564. In brief, what may be said of him as a man, and of his 

writings ? 

565. How is Robert Southey introduced ? 

566. What would have better adapted his writings to the needs of 

humanity ? 

567. What may be said of them in general ? 

568. What did his uncle say of him ? 

569. How does he rank as a critic on other men's productions ? 

570. To what did he have a strong aversion ? 

571. How extensively, and with what success, did Sir Walter 

Scott write ? 

572. What has he been called, and why ? 

573. How did Lord Holland reply when asked his opinion of one 

of Scott's books ? 

574. What was the character of his works ? 

575. What was the character of the author ? ' 

576. What have his poems done for Scotland ? 

577. What is a distinguishing feature of his verse ? 

578. How has this characteristic had a tendency to make his 

poems popular ? 

579. Illustrate his power of condensation ? 

580. What are the faults of his prose style ? 

581. What good influences do his writings exert ? 

582. How does Byron rank among poets ? 

583. What are the excellences of his style ? 

584. What unhealthful spirit runs through nearly all his poems ? 

585. From what did his loneliness and low spirits arise ? 

586. What figure serves to illustrate his course ? 

587. By what are some of his writings tainted ? 

588. What may be said in favor of many portions of his work ? 

589. How must his writings be regarded as a whole ? 

590. Who are the special admirers of Charles Lamb's writings ? 

591. How was he enabled to impart a certain grace and beauty to 

the most common objects ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART FIRST. 187 

592. What has been said of the cause of his writing so charmingly? 
593- Where did he find his subjects ? 

594. How were the most ordinary objects apparently transformed 

when placed in the alembic of his mind ? 

595. What accomplishment did he have that would not be looked 

for in a man who lived a solitary life ? 

596. What may be said of the poetical genius of Percy Bysshe 

Shelley ? 

597. How does Macaulay rank his gifts ? 

598. What does Shelley say about poetry ? 

599. Why is it that his flights of fancy cannot be fully 

appreciated ? 

600. How does a great share of his poetry appear to some minds ? 

601. To what may it be compared ? 

602. What was his influence upon the poets that immediately 

succeeded his time ? 

603. What may be said of his habits and character ? 

604. How was he driven to skepticism ? 

605. What do his writings contain ? 

606. What do we love in the man ? 

607. What are we forced to admit ? 

608. What was the unfortunate fate of John Keats ? 

609. How was his death hastened ? 

610. Viewed in the light of the present day, which is it that 

appears contemptible, the poem, or the criticism ? 

611. What faults may be noticed in " Endymion " ? 

612. What may be said of the poem as a whole ? 

613. How may the unfinished poem "Hyperion" be compared 

with " Endymion " ? 

614. How did Byron regard this fragment ? 

615. What is a source of constant regret ? 

616. What questions may we well ask ? 

617. What may be said of the issues that are before us ? 

618. What purposes may be served by the airy castles which 

fancy builds upon foundations of obscurity ? 

619. What should they not be allowed to do ? 

620. What was the character, the work, and the fate of Bishop 

Heber ? 



188 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

621. How was his poetic genius manifested ? 

622. In what will his sentiments forever live ? 

623. What impressions do you receive from the extract quoted 

from his poem on Palestine ? 

624. How did Charles Wolfe make himself forever famous in the 

literary world ? 

625. What has an' able critic said of these lines ? 

626. What excellences do you discover in the poem ? 

627. Does it have the power to make you see what it describes ? 

628. What is its general impression upon your feelings ? 

629. How were the poems of Mrs. Hemans received ? 

630. What did Sir Walter Scott say of them ? 

631. Give a synopsis of her little poem called " The Graves of a 

Household." 

632. What touching and beautiful things do you find in it ? 

633. Describe the character and work of William Hazlitt. 

634. What was Henry Hallam's character as an author ? 

635. What tribute does Lord Macaulay give to the talent, faith- 

fulness, and impartiality of this distinguished writer ? 

636. In what varied capacities has Lord Macaulay a wide 

reputation ? 

637. In which of these is he probably best known ? — As a 

historian. 

638. For what is he particularly noted ? 

639. How is his style described by the historian Milman ? 

640. What is Henry Hart Milman said to have had ? 

641. What were his chief works ? 

642. How has he achieved his greatest fame ? 

643. What does Mr. Backus say of him ? 

644. Who was one of the most agreeable, as well as one of the 

most excellent, prose-writers of this century ? 

645. How did he begin his literary work ? 

646. How long did he continue it, and with what success ? 

647. What does Mr. Bryant say of the changes that took place 

during that period ? 

648. What was the tone of his writings during all this time of 

turmoil and strife ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART FIRST. 189 

649. What effect do his writings produce ? 

650. What is his pathos ? 

651. Describe his landscape. 

652. Whom do his writings concern and interest ? 

653. What does Bryant say of their universality ? 

654. What may be said of his humor ? 

655. Describe his sarcasm. 

656. How was he received in England ? 

657. What was the only public office that he would accept ? 

658. What grew out of his sojourn in Spain ? 

659. In what works does he give a picturesque view of our far 

West in the early part of the century ? 

660. Which of his works furnish excellent historical reading ? 

661. To how late a period in the century did Irving live and write ? 

662. What excellent religious writer died about the time that 

Irving began writing for publication ? 

663. What kind of man was Dr. Paley ? 

664. How is he described in the quoted extracts ? 

665. What was the character and life work of William Wil- 

berforce ? 

666. What efforts did he put forth against slavery and the slave- 

trade ? 

667. What literary work was performed by Dr. Adam Clarke ? 

668. Where did he establish a mission ? 

669. For what was Dr. Thomas Chalmers noted ? 

670. What may be said of his appearance and manner ? 

671. What astonishing power did he possess ? 

672. On what did this wonderful influence chiefly depend ? 
673 What was a great aid to these qualities ? 

674. What is said of his language ? 

675. How did he make his hearers forget his awkwardness ? 

676. What did he unite with the learning of a philosopher ? 

677. On what subjects did he write ? 

678. Give a synopsis of Hannah More's efforts and success 

during the first part of her life. 

679. In the midst of all this prosperity, what did she decide to do ? 

680. What did she attempt to turn to the advancement of religion ? 



190 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

68 1. To whom did she turn her attention in her endeavors to do 

good ? 

682. How long did she continue her work ? 

683. How much money did her writings bring her ? 

684. How did she employ her means ? 

685. What great work did she and her sisters undertake, and 

carry forward to a successful issue ? 

686. How are humor and pathos related ? 

687. By what figures is this intimate relation illustrated ? 

688. In what kind of spirit do they both originate ? 

689. Who possessed such a spirit in an eminent degree ? 

690. How is he most widely known ? 

691. What is more exquisite than his humor ? 

692. What afford illustrations of this ? 

693. What is the nature of his humor ? 

694. How has he shown what he might have accomplished in 

loftier themes ? 

695. Write a paraphrase of " The Death-bed." 

696. How is Alfred Tennyson regarded ? 

697. What is the character of his style ? 

698. In what does he show the perfection of art ? 

699. Mention some of his longer poems. 

700. Which are among the most graceful of his productions ? 

701. What do some consider to be his noblest effort ? 

702. Describe the poem. 

703. What may be said of his subjects and narratives ? 

704. What purpose do they serve ? 

705. What qualities of his writings put him in touch with his 

readers ? 

706. How is he spoken of in the International Cyclopedia ? 

707. What American writers were contemporary with Tennyson ? 

708. Why is it that they need no extended notice ? 

709. What names are honored and revered among us no less than 

those of Washington and Lincoln ? 

710. How are their poems received by the American people ? 

711. How were these bards unlike most of the great British 

poets ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART FIRST. 191 

712. Tell how the time and energies of William Cullen Bryant 

were employed ? 

713. What did he find time to do amid all the responsibilities of 

his busy life ? 

714. What appears a marvel to all who study his history ? 

715. How early in life did he write poems ? 

716. How much time passed between the writing of " Thanatop- 

sis " and " The Flood of Years " ? 

717. How are these poems regarded ? 

718. Compare his powers and capabilities at nineteen and at 

eighty-three. 

719. What literary work did he perform at the age of seventy ? 

720. Describe his last effort and the sequel. 

721. How may Bryant's poetry be classed ? 

722. What is the peculiarity of his nature-studies ? 

723. How does he give them dignity without detracting from their 

charms ? 

724. At what period in his life was his imagination most cheerful 

and his style most sprightly ? 

725. What may be said of the influence of Bryant's poems, and of 

their improving by long acquaintance ? 

726. Who is our poet of the household, and a universal favorite ? 

727. How extensively are his poems read ? 

728. How does he make up for any lack which there may be in 

profundity or intensity ? 

729. What yearning does he seem to satisfy better than most 

other poets ? 

730. How can he delight us ? 

731. How does he often find access where others could not enter ? 

732. What can be said of the enduring qualities of his writings ? 

733. What has been said of the poetic gift of John Greenleaf 

Whittier ? 

734. What is said of his letters ? 

735. What was his character ? 

736. Describe his style. 

737. What is the influence of his writings ? 

738. In what did James Russell Lowell resemble Longfellow ? 



192 HISTORICAL OUTLINE. 

739. How is this shown by the way in which he was received in 

everything he did ? 

740. How did he attract special attention ? 

741. What is said of his " Biglow Papers" ? 

742. What were his literary attainments, and what was his skill 

as a critic ? 

743. What was Oliver Wendell Holmes by profession ? 

744. What connection had he with the Atlantic Monthly ? 

745. What was the character of his novels, his poems, and his 

essays ? 

746. Describe his conversational powers. 

747. Which of his writings have made him most noted ? 

748. What was the literary merit of Nathaniel Hawthorne ? 

749. How is he now universally recognized ? 

750. What do his writings afford ? 

751. How is he regarded by some ? 

752. What great English fiction-writer was contemporary with the 

great American writers just noticed ? 

753. What is the general aim, and what the tendency, of his 

writings ? 

754. What does he show concerning both the rich and the poor ? 

755. What was the strong purpose in his writings ? 

756. What political and social influence do they exert ? 

757. What may be said of the influence of Harriet Beecher Stovve ? 

758. How was " Uncle Tom 's Cabin " regarded ? 

759. In whose behalf did she write it ? 

760. How was it more than the production of a great intellect ? 

761. With all its terrible earnestness, what kind of spirit did it 

show ? 

762. What gave it its peculiar power, and how great was its 

influence ? 

763. How was it received, and how extensively has it been sold ? 

764. What may be said of other distinguished writers ? 

765. What may be said of their influence ? 

766. What names are mentioned ? 

767. Why is it not necessary to give an extensive notice here ? 

768. Where will extracts from their writings appear ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART FIRST. 193 

769. What has been the effort in this Part First ? 

770. What would be required in order to do the subject justice ? 

771. Why may it be as well that much has been omitted ? 

772. What does the outline still contain ? 

773. Why cannot the present value of an author 's work be esti- 

mated wholly from the prominence given him in a history 
of literature ? 
What is the character of those writings which constitute 
literature in the highest sense ? 



774. 



PART SECOND. 



SELECTIONS. 



[195] 



INTRODUCTORY. 



What Constitutes Literature. 

In a general sense, literature embraces all written or 
printed expression of thought. Thus we speak of light 
literature, meaning such writings as demand but little 
thought from the reader ; of trashy literature, meaning 
that which has no real worth ; of pernicious literature, 
in referring to that which is positively bad ; of polite 
literature, when referring to that which is esthetic in 
thought and highly finished in style ; of the literature of 
science, of art, etc. 

In a truer and more restricted sense, literature 
embraces only those productions which have a marked 
degree of excellence, — writings that are characterized 
by vigorous thought, a healthy imagination, or a clear 
insight into human character and the mysteries of nature. 
Its language must also be pure in diction, clear in 
expression, and symmetrical in arrangement. Some 
productions not ideally perfect in all these qualities, 
justly find a place in standard literature ; but it is 
because their unusual merit so impresses us that for the 
sake of that merit we are willing to overlook blemishes. 
They contain so much good gold that we gladly accept 
them, content to work out the dross as we may. 

[i97] 



198 INTRODUCTORY. 

What we regard as our standard literature is made 
up of writings that have stood the test of years. 
Generation after generation has read them with delight 
and profit. There is something in them that meets the 
wants of a great variety of people. They have power 
to interest the high and the low, the educated and the 
uncultured, alike. There is a catholicity in them that 
adapts them to the needs of all men at all times. 
They never grow old. They are as fresh to-day as 
when written, centuries ago, and are read with as great 
delight now as then. 

The universality already noticed is one of the most 
important qualities of the best literature. It is this 
quality in a literary production that gives it a breadth 
of scope as wide as the earth, and extends its influence 
as far as the language in which it is written is understood. 
It addresses itself to no particular class, sect, or party, 
but to man as man. It touches impulses, emotions, aspi- 
rations, that are common, in greater or less degree, to 
all mankind. It appeals to human nature ; and since 
human nature is essentially the same in all ages of the 
world, such writings are adapted to every generation 
and never lose their usefulness. By virtue of this 
quality they have maintained a place in print, and have 
been handed down through the centuries to us. Their 
teachings, promptings, and leadings concern every 
human being, and no one can say that they are nothing 
to him. 

It is not to be supposed that in a literary work of any 
great length this characteristic can be traced in every 
paragraph. It should, nevertheless, be ever present in 
the general trend of an article or book. The Bible gives 



WHAT CONSTITUTES LITERATURE. 199 

us the most remarkable exhibition of this quality. There 
are, it is true, some things in it that have a local appli- 
cation, some that have a special application for the time 
in which they were written ; but in the main, its history, 
its prophecies, its precepts, its exhortations, its promises, 
are alike applicable, and should be alike precious, to all 
mankind. He who created man, knew how, through 
inspiration, to give him a book that would meet his 
wants in all times, and in all conditions. 

In books of mere human production it is hard, until 
time has tested them, to tell which will find a permanent 
place in literature. It is safe to say, however, that 
books deficient in the quality of universality must be 
short-lived. Many of them are instructive and useful 
during their day, but they pass away with the necessity 
that called them forth. They are good current literature, 
but have no permanent value. Books of this ephemeral 
character may be a commercial success, but do not 
increase the stores — do not add to the real wealth — of 
literature. 

DISTINCTIONS IN GOOD LITERATURE. 

Literature may be classified in many ways, but we 
will here consider only two classes. These may be sug- 
gested by the terms Knowledge Literature and Power 
Literature. The chief aim of the one is to instruct ; of 
the other, to rouse. There are, however, intermediate 
writings that partake of the nature of both these 
classes. For instance, an article whose chief purpose is 
to impart knowledge may have a certain power of inspi- 
ration in its manner of teaching. On the other hand, an 
article, or a book, whose leading object is to stimulate 



200 INTRODUCTORY. 

thought and strengthen motive may incidentally impart 
useful knowledge. 

The Knowledge Literature includes technical teaching 
of all kinds. Such works are dry to most people, and 
are pursued either from a sense of duty or for the benefit 
they are thought to confer. They aim to instruct and 
direct in a definite way. They make no appeal to the 
moral or emotional nature. They are mechanical, accu- 
rate ; but they exercise the intellect only. They may be 
termed the Literature of Science — naked science at 
that. As a treasure-house of facts, they are convenient 
for reference, and therefore useful in their way ; but they 
are not, as some suppose, the only useful books. There 
are men, who, having spent the best part of life in 
storing up facts, have become walking encyclopedias. 
Such people are honored for their attainments, and have 
a certain value, like books of reference ; but it is often 
the case that they exert little or no influence in raising 
their fellow men to a higher plane of thought and action. 

The Power Literature has a more exalted office, — 
that of inspiring and quickening the whole man. It 
gives play to the intellect, but not to that alone. 
It works most powerfully on the moral and emotional 
nature of man. It teaches, enlightens, convinces ; but it 
does more. It has power to make men feel, — and not 
only to feel, but to act. It touches the heart, and thus 
creates motives. It shows man his relation to God, 
to his fellow men, and to nature, inspiring in him a 
love for all. Thus it gives him the highest power for 
usefulness ; since love is the only real power for good. 
It continually calls into action the best attributes of his 
nature, and through this exercise they are strengthened 



WHAT CONSTITUTES LITERATURE. 1 ; <>1 

and disciplined. Nothing can reach its highest develop- 
ment except through its own action. It is by use that 
the hand and the eye gain strength and skill. It is by 
use that the judgment becomes quick and reliable. Just 
so it is with love, generosity, truthfulness, gratitude, and 
all the finer faculties of our moral being. They, too, 
must be developed through their own action, and any 
book that calls them into healthy exercise, imparts 
power for good. Such writings must of necessity pos- 
sess the quality of universality, since the attributes upon 
which they work are common to mankind in all ages ; 
and it may be safely assumed that all literary produc- 
tions rise in the scale of excellence just in proportion to 
the amount or degree which they possess of this power. 
There is, however, a power literature that works 
upon the baser nature of man, stimulating and strength- 
ening' his evil passions. Just as the better kind elevates 
and ennobles him, so does this pernicious kind debase 
and brutalize him. This species of writing, however, 
should never be classed as literature, except in the 
broadest and lowest sense. The harm it has done is 
incalculable. The characters it has ruined are without 

number. 

USEFUL READING. 

What reading is most useful is the important ques- 
tion to be considered in the study of literature. As 
already shown, useful writings are not confined to a 
mere compilation of facts. One of the best tests of any 
piece of writing is the state it leaves us in when we have 
finished reading it. If it leaves us with a deeper rever- 
ence for the Creator ; a tenderer feeling toward man- 
kind as a whole ; with a warmer admiration for the 



202 INTRODUCTORY. 

works of God in nature, both animate and inanimate ; 
— if it leaves us with a keener sense of our obligations 
to God and to our fellow men ; with a more profound 
feeling of gratitude for the benefits we enjoy ; with a 
stronger desire for some part in the work which the 
Savior of the world has undertaken for man ; with a 
more gentle, tolerant, and generous spirit, — it has been 
a good thing for us to read. 

But perhaps a still better test is the permanent 
impression it makes on us. Sometimes one feels that 
he needs time before deciding upon the merits of a 
book. It may have been so exciting that he must wait 
for his feelings to subside into a normal state, before 
he can decide with respect to the permanence of the 
impressions which he has received. 

But there is an all-important test which may be 
applied to literature, as well as to everything else in 
life, — the test of permanent value. The question to be 
asked in regard to any production is this, — Will it be 
useful hereafter? — not simply in this life, but in the 
life to come. 

It is generally believed by good men that we may 
secure attainments here that will enhance our happiness 
in the future life. The better we learn to love God 
now, the greater power we shall have for loving him 
then, and the more perfect will be our happiness ; for 
unselfish love is the spring from which the highest hap- 
piness flows. The more fervently we enter into the 
work of doing good, the more fully will we be able to 
enter into the joy of our Lord, when he shall welcome 
home those who have been saved through him. ■ The 
more we delight ourselves in admiring the works of God 



WHAT CONSTITUTES LITERATURE. 203 

in nature, the more we shall, to all eternity, enjoy the 
wonderful creations which he has yet to make known to 
us. It is in this way that we may all be laying up treas- 
ures in heaven, and the kind of reading that aids most 
in this work is the most profitable. 

The knowledge, the literature, the training, which 
teaches us how to gain a competency here, how to suc- 
ceed in business, how to gain a title to respectability, 
is useful in its way, and should not be neglected ; but 
that which fits us to take a loving part in our Master's 
work, is better. It is part of that higher culture which 
prepares us to stand in the presence of God and the 
angels, and to share in the exalted joys prepared for us 
by the Author of our being. This is a practical educa- 
tion in the truest sense, and the literature which tends 
to promote it is as much higher in usefulness than that 
with a lower aim as heaven is higher than the earth, 



CHAPTER ONE. 



In Honor of the Creator. 

IMMENSITY OF GOD'S WORKS. 

JOSEPH ADDISON. 

I was yesterday about sunset walking in the open 
fields, until the night insensibly fell upon me. I at first 
amused myself with all the richness and variety of colors 
which appeared in the western parts of heaven. In 
proportion as they faded away and went out, several 
stars and planets appeared, one after another, until the 
whole firmament was in a glow. The blueness of the 
ether was exceedingly heightened and enlivened by 
the season of the year, and by the rays of all those lumina- 
ries that passed through it. The galaxy appeared in its 
most beautiful white. To complete the scene, the full 
moon rose at length in that clouded majesty which 
Milton takes notice of, and opened to the eye a new 
picture of nature, which was more finely shaded, and 
disposed among softer lights, than that which the sun 
had before discovered to us. 

As I was surveying the moon walking in her bright- 
ness, and taking her progress among the constellations, 
a thought rose in me which I believe very often perplexes 
and disturbs men of serious and contemplative natures. 
David himself fell into it in that reflection: "When I 
consider the heavens the work of thy fingers, the moon 
and the stars which thou hast ordained, what is man 
[204] 






IN HONOR OF THE CREATOR. 205 

that thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that 
thou regardest him?" In the same manner, when I 
considered that infinite host of stars, or, to speak more 
philosophically, of suns, which were then shining upon 
me, with those innumerable sets of planets or worlds 
which were moving around their respective suns — when 
I still enlarged the idea, and supposed another heaven of 
suns and worlds rising still above this which we [have] 
discovered, and these still enlightened by a superior 
firmament of luminaries, which are planted at so great a 
distance that they may appear to the inhabitants of the 
former as the stars do to us ; ■ — in short, while I pursued 
this thought, I could not but reflect on that little insig- 
nificant figure which I myself bore amidst the immensity 
of God's works. 

Were the sun which enlightens this part of the crea- 
tion, — were all the host of planetary worlds that move 
about him, utterly extinguished and annihilated, they 
would not be missed more than a grain of sand upon the 
seashore. The space they possess is so exceedingly 
little in comparison of the whole, that it would scarce 
make a blank in the creation. The chasm would be 
imperceptible to an eye that could take in the whole 
compass of nature, and pass from one end of the creation 
to the other ; and it is possible there may be such a 
sense in ourselves hereafter, or in creatures which are 
at present more exalted than ourselves. We see many 
stars by the help of glasses which we do not discover 
with our naked eyes ; and the finer our telescopes are, 
the more still are our discoveries. Huyghens carries 
this thought so far, that he does not think it impossible 
[that] there may be stars whose light has not yet traveled 



206 SELECTIONS. 

down to us since their first creation. There is no ques- 
tion but the universe has certain bounds set to it ; but 
when we consider that it is the work of infinite power 
prompted by infinite goodness, with an infinite space to 
exert itself in, how can our imagination set any bounds 
to it? 



ODE. 

JOSEPH ADDISON. 

The spacious firmament on high, 

With all the blue ethereal sky, 

And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 

Their great Original proclaim : 

The unwearied sun, from day to day, 

Does his Creator 's power display, 

And publishes to every land 

The work of an Almighty hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
The moon takes up the wondrous tale, 
And, nightly to the listening earth, 
Repeats the story of her birth : 
While all the stars that round her burn, 
And all the planets in their turn, 
Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though, in solemn silence, all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball ? 
What though no real voice, nor sound, 
Amid their radiant orbs be found ? 
In Reason's ear they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice ; 
Forever singing as they shine, 
The hand that made us is divine." 



IN HONOR OF THE CREATOR. 207 

OMNIPRESENCE AND OMNISCIENCE OF GOD. 

JOSEPH ADDISON. 

If we consider him [the Creator] in his omnipres- 
ence, his being passes through, actuates, and supports 
the whole frame of nature. His creation, and every 
part of it, is full of him. There is nothing he has made 
that is so distant, so little, or so inconsiderable, that he 
does not essentially inhabit it. His substance is within 
the substance of every being, whether material or imma- 
terial, and as intimately present to it as that being is to 
itself. It would be an imperfection in him were he able 
to remove out of one place into another, or to withdraw 
himself from anything he has created, or from any part 
of that space which is diffused and spread abroad to 
infinity. In short, to speak of him in the language of 
the old philosopher, he is a being whose center is every- 
where, and his circumference nowhere. 

In the second place, he is omniscient as well as 
omnipresent. His omniscience, indeed, necessarily and 
naturally flows from his omnipresence : he cannot but 
be conscious of every motion that arises in the whole 
material world, which he thus essentially pervades ; and 
of every thought that is stirring in the intellectual world, 
to every part of which he is thus intimately united. 
Several moralists have considered the creation as the 
temple of God, which he has built with his own hands, 
and which is filled with his presence. Others have 
considered infinite space as the receptacle, or rather 
the habitation, of the Almighty. But the noblest and 
most exalted way of considering this infinite space is 
that of Sir Isaac Newton, who calls it the sensorium of 



208 SELECTIONS. 

the Godhead. Brutes and men have their sensoriola, 
or little sensoriums, by which they apprehend the pres- 
ence and perceive the actions of a few objects that lie 
contiguous to them. Their knowledge and observation 
turn within a very narrow circle. But as God Almighty 
cannot but perceive and know everything in which he 
resides, infinite space gives room to infinite knowledge, 
and is, as it were, an organ to omniscience. 

Were the soul separate from the body, and with one 
glance of thought should start beyond the bounds of the 
creation, — should it for millions of years continue its 
progress through infinite space with the same activity, — 
it would still find itself within the embrace of its Creator, 
and encompassed round with the immensity of the God- 
head. While we are in the body, he is not less present 
with us because he is concealed from us. "O that I 
knew where I might find him! " says Job. "Behold, 
I go forward, but he is not there ; and backward, but I 
cannot perceive him : on the left hand where he does 
work, but I cannot behold him ; he hideth himself on 
the right hand that I cannot see him." In short, reason 
as well as revelation assures us that he cannot be absent 
from us, notwithstanding he is undiscovered by us. 

In this consideration of God Almighty's omnipresence 
and omniscience, every uncomfortable thought vanishes. 
He cannot but regard everything that has being, espe- 
cially such of his creatures who fear they are not 
regarded by him. He is privy to all their thoughts, 
and to that anxiety of heart in particular which is apt 
to trouble them on this occasion : for as it is impossible 
he should overlook any of his creatures, so we may be 
confident that he regards with an eye of mercy those 



IN HONOR OF THE CREATOR. 209 

who endeavor to recommend themselves to his notice, 
and in an unfeigned humility of heart think themselves 
unworthy that he should be mindful of them. 



NATURE WORSHIPS GOD. 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

The harp at Nature's advent strung 

Has never ceased to play ; 
The song the stars of morning sung 

Has never died away. 

And prayer is made, and praise is given, 

By all things near and far ; 
The ocean looketh up to heaven, 

And mirrors every star. 

Its waves are kneeling on the strand, 

As kneels the human knee, 
Their white locks bowing to the sand, — 

The priesthood of the sea ! 

They pour their glittering treasures forth, 
Their gifts of pearl they bring, 

And all the listening hills of earth 
Take up the song they sing. 

The green earth sends her incense up 
From many a mountain shrine ; 

From folded leaf and dewy cup 
She pours her sacred wine. 

The mists above the morning rills 
Rise white as wings of prayer ; 

The altar-curtains of the hills 
Are sunset's purple air. 

H 



210 SELECTIONS. 



The winds with hymns of praise are loud, 

Or low with sobs of pain, — 
The thunder-organ of the cloud, 

The dropping tears of rain. 

With drooping head and branches crossed, 

The twilight forest grieves, 
Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost 

From all its sunlit leaves. 

The blue sky is the temple's arch, 

Its transept earth and air, 
The music of its starry march 

The chorus of a prayer. 

So Nature keeps the reverent frame 

With which her years began, 
And all her signs and voices shame 

The prayerless heart of man. 



THE SOURCE OF ALL GOOD. 

JOHN MILTON SCOTT. 
In "Life-studies." 

Out of the heart of summer the fruits come, while 
each seed and stalk and tree is diligent in its personal 
task, as though alone it did the deed of itself. But 
the transcendent, indwelling sunshine made the fruits 
and the grains, and set the soil of the earth in the love- 
liness of the rose. Yea ! it was but the life and love of 
God that invented, and all the lovely living things of the 
earth came forth to bless, — the fishes in the sea, the 
grains in the field, the flowers by the wayside, the birds 
in the air, the children in the home, and the beautiful 
other-soul that you love better than your life. 



IN HONOR OF THE CREATOR. 211 

Man invents, and it seems that from himself are these 
great achievements ; but deep within his conscious life 
is the love of God, making the human earth to be 
enriched with all these things of the human handiwork. 
Men realize God and know it not. He is the lovely 
haunting of these ideals that stir us to do, to create, 
fellowshiping him in the joys in which his worlds are 
made. 



THE LOVE OF GOD. 

From Esaias TegneVs "Children of the Lord's Supper," 
translated by H. W. Longfellow. 

Love is the root of creation, — God's essence: worlds without 

number 
Lie in his bosom like children : he made them for this purpose 

only. 
Only to love and to be loved again, he breathed forth his spirit 
Into the slumbering dust, and upright standing, it laid its 
Hand on its heart, and felt it was warm with a flame out of 

heaven. 
Quench. O quench not that flame I It is the breath of your 

being. 
Love is life, but hatred is death. Not father nor mother 
Loved you as God has loved you: for 'twas that you may be 

happy 
Gave he his only Son. "When he bowed down his head in the 

death-hour. 
Solemnized Love its triumph ; the sacrifice then was completed. 
Lo ! then was rent on a sudden the veil of the temple, dividing 
Earth and heaven apart, and the dead from their sepulchres rising 
Whispered with pallid lips and low in the ears of each other 
The answer — but dreamed of before — to creation's enigma. — 

Atonement ! 
Depths of Love are Atonement's depths, for Love is Atonement. 
Therefore, child of mortality, love thou the merciful Father : 
Wish what the Holy One wishes, and not from fear, but affection ; 



212 SELECTIONS. 

Fear is the virtue of slaves ; but the heart that loveth is willing ; 
Perfect was before God, and perfect is Love, and Love only. 
Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, then lovest thou likewise thy 

brethren ; 
One is the sun in heaven, — and one, only one, is Love also. 
Bears not each human figure the godlike stamp on his forehead ? 
Readest thou not in his face thine origin ? Is he not sailing 
Lost like thyself on an ocean unknown ? and is he not guided 
By the same stars that guide thee ? Why shouldst thou hate then 

thy brother ? 
Hateth he thee, forgive ! For 't is sweet to stammer one letter 
Of the Eternal's language ; — ■ on earth it is called Forgiveness ! 
Knowest thou Him, who forgave with the crown of thorns on his 

temples ? 
Earnestly prayed for his foes, for his murderers ? Say, dost thou 

know him ? 
Ah ! thou confessest his name, so follow likewise his example ; 
Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a veil over his failings ; 
Guide the erring aright ; for the good, the heavenly, shepherd 
Took the lost lamb in his arms, and bore it back to its mother. 
This is the fruit of Love, and it is by its fruits that we know it. 
Love is the creature's welfare, with God ; but Love among mortals 
Is but an endless sigh ! He longs, and endures, and stands 

waiting ; 
Suffers and yet rejoices, and smiles with tears on his eyelids. 
Hope, — so is called upon earth, his recompense, — Hope, the 

befriending, 
Does what she can ; for she points evermore up to heaven, and 

faithful 
Plunges her anchor's peak in the depths of the grave, and 

beneath it 
Paints a more beautiful world, — a dim, but a sweet play of 

shadows ! 
Races, better than we, have leaned on^her wavering promise, 
Having naught else but Hope. Then praise we our Father in 

heaven, 
Him, who has given us more ; for to us has Hope been transfigured, 
Groping no longer in night ; she is Faith, she is living assurance. 



IN HONOR OF THE CREATOR. 213 

Faith is enlightened Hope ; she is light, is the eye of affection, 
Dreams of the longing interprets, and carves their visions in 

marble. 
Faith is the sun of life ; and her countenance shines like the 

Hebrew's, 
For she has looked upon God ; the heaven on its stable foundation 
Draws she with chains down to earth, and the New Jerusalem 

sinketh 
Splendid with portals twelve in golden vapors descending. 



CHAPTER TWO. 



Education, Morals, and Religion. 

EXTRACTS FROM REMARKS ON EDUCATION. 

WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING. 

It seems, however, that the community are more 
disposed to talk of education in general than to enter 
patiently and minutely into its principles and methods, 
— more disposed to laud it than to labor for it ; and on 
this account we feel ourselves bound to say something, 
however briefly and rapidly, of the obligation of regard- 
ing it as the paramount object of society, and of giving 
encouragement to those who make it their task, or who 
devote themselves to its promotion. We know that we 
are repeating a thrice-told tale, are inviting attention 
to principles which the multitude most courteously 
acknowledge, and as readily forget. But all great 
truths are apt to grow trite ; and if the moral teacher 
should fail to enforce them, because they are worn by 
repetition, religious and moral teaching would well 
uigh cease. 

#' # * •* * 

We are aware that there are some who take an 
attitude of defense when pressed with earnest applica- 
tions on the subject of education. They think its impor- 
tance overrated. They say that circumstances chiefly 
determine the young mind ; that the influence of parents 
[214] 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 215 

and teachers is very narrow ; and that they sometimes 
dwarf and distort instead of improving the child, by 
taking the work out of the hand of nature. These 
remarks are not wholly unfounded. The power of 
parents is often exaggerated. To strengthen their sense 
of responsibility, they are often taught that they are 
competent to effects which are not within their reach, 
and are often discouraged by the greatness of the task 
to which they are summoned. Nothing is gained by 
exaggeration. It is true, and the truth need not be dis- 
guised, that parents cannot operate at pleasure on the 
minds and characters of the young. Their influence is 
limited by their own ignorance and imperfection, by the 
strength and freedom of the will of the child, and by 
its connection, from its breath, with other objects and 
beings. Parents are not the only educators of their 
offspring, but must divide the work with other and 
numerous agents. And in this w r e rejoice ; for, were the 
young confined to domestic influences, each generation 
would be a copy of the preceding, and the progress of 
society would cease. The child is not put into the 
hands of parents alone. It is not born to hear but a 
few voices. It is brought at birth into a vast, we may 
say an infinite, school. The universe is charged with 
the office of its education. Innumerable voices come to 
it from all that it meets, sees, feels. It is not confined 
to a few books anxiously selected for it by parental care. 
Nature, society, experience, are volumes opened every- 
where and perpetually before its eyes. It takes lessons 
from every object within the sphere of its senses 
and its activity, — from the sun and stars; from the 
flowers of spring and the fruits of autumn ; from every 



216 SELECTIONS. 

associate ; from every smiling and frowning counte- 
nance ; from the pursuits, trades, professions, of the" 
community in which it moves ; from its plays, friend- 
ships, and dislikes ; from the varieties of human char- 
acter ; and from the consequences of its actions. All 
these, and more than these, are appointed to teach, 
awaken, develop, the mind of the child. It is plunged 
amidst friendly and hostile influences, to grow by co- 
operating with the first, and by resisting the last. The 
circumstances in which we are placed, form, indeed, a 
most important school, and by their help some men 
have risen to distinction in knowledge and virtue, with 
little aid from parents, teachers, and books. 

Still, the influence of parents and teachers is great. 
On them it very much depends whether the circum- 
stances which surround the child shall operate to his 
good. They must help him to read, interpret, and use 
wisely the great volumes of nature, society, and experi- 
ence. They must fix his volatile glance, arrest his 
precipitate judgment, guide his observation, teach him 
to link together cause and effect in the outward world, 
and turn his thoughts inward on his own more mysterious 
nature. The young, left to the education of circum- 
stances, — left without teaching, guidance, restraint, — 
will, in all probability, grow up ignorant, torpid in 
intellect, strangers to their own powers, and slaves to 
their passions. The fact that some children, without 
aid from parents or schools, have struggled into eminence, 
no more proves such aid to be useless than the fact that 
some have grown strong under physical exposures which 
would destroy the majority of the race, would prove the 
worthlessness of the ordinary precautions which are 
taken for the security of health. 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 217 

We have spoken of parents as possessing, and as 
bound to exert, an important influence on the young. 
But they cannot do the whole work of education. Their 
daily occupation, the necessity of labors for the support 
of their families, household cares, the duty of watching 
over the health of their children, and other social rela- 
tions, render it almost impossible for parents to qualify 
themselves for much of the teaching which the young 
require, and often deny them time and opportunity for 
giving instruction to which they are competent. Hence 
the need of a class of persons who shall devote them- 
selves exclusively to the work of education. In all 
societies, ancient and modern, this want has been felt ; 
the profession of teachers has been known ; and to secure 
the best helps of this kind to children is one of the first 
duties of parents ; for on these the progress of their chil- 
dren very much depends. 

One of the discouraging views of society at the 
present moment is, that whilst much is said of education, 
hardly any seem to feel the necessity of securing to it 
the best minds in the community, and of securing them 
at any price. 

* * •& ■* -K- 

No language can express the cruelty or folly of that 
economy which, to leave a fortune to a child, starves his 
intellect, impoverishes his heart. There should be no 
economy in education. Money should never be weighed 
against the soul of a child. It should be poured out like 
water for the child's intellectual and moral life. 



Let us, if w T e can, do good far and wide. Let us 
send light and joy, if we can, to the ends of the earth. 



218 SELECTIONS. 

The charity which is now active for distant objects is 
noble. We only wish to say that it ranks behind the 
obscurer philanthropy which, while it sympathizes with 
the race, enters deeply into the minds, wants, interests, 
of the individuals within its reach, and devotes itself 
patiently and wisely to the task of bringing them to a 
higher standard of intellectual and moral worth. 



One great cause of the low estimation in which the 
teacher is now held may be found in narrow views 
of education. The multitude think that to educate a 
child is to crowd into its mind a given amount of knowl- 
edge, to teach the mechanism of reading and writing, to 
load the memory with words, to prepare a boy for the 
routine of a trade. No wonder, then, that they think 
almost everybody fit to teach. The true en4 of educa- 
tion, as we have again and again suggested, is to unfold 
and direct aright our whole nature. Its office is to call 
forth power of every kind, — power of thought, affection, 
will, and outward action ; power to observe, to reason, 
to judge, to contrive ; power to adopt good ends firmly, 
and to pursue them efficiently ; power to govern our- 
selves, and to influence others ; power to gain and to 
spread happiness. Reading is but an instrument ; 
education is to teach its best use. The intellect was 
created not to receive passively a few words, dates, 
facts ; but to be active for the acquisition of truth. 
Accordingly, education should labor to inspire a pro- 
found love of truth, and to teach the processes of 
investigation. A sound logic — by which we mean the 
science or art which instructs us in the laws of reasoning 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 219 

and evidence, in the true methods of inquiry, and in the 
sources of false judgments — is an essential part of a 
good education. And yet how little is done to teach the 
right use of the intellect in the common modes of 
training either rich or poor ! As a general rule, the 
young are to be made, as far as possible, their own 
teachers, — the discoverers of truth, the interpreters of 
nature, the framers of science. They are to be helped 
to help themselves. They should be taught to observe 
and study the world in which they live, to trace the 
connections of events, to rise from particular facts to 
general principles, and then to apply these in explaining 
new phenomena. Such is a rapid outline of the intel- 
lectual education, which, as far as possible, should be 
given to all human beings ; and with this, moral educa- 
tion should go hand in hand. In proportion as the 
child gains knowledge, he should be taught how to use 
it well, — how to turn it to the good of mankind. He 
should study the world as God's world, and as the 
sphere in which he is to form interesting connections 
with his fellow creatures. A spirit of humanity should 
be breathed into him from all his studies. 



PRACTISE AND HABIT. 

JOHN LOCKE. 

As it is in the body, so it is in the mind ; practise 
makes it what it is ; and most, even of those excellences 
which are looked on as natural endowments, will be 
founc, when examined into more narrowly, to be the 
product of exercise, and to be raised to that pitch only 
by repeated actions. Some men are remarked for 



220 SELECTIONS. 

pleasantness in raillery, others for apologues and appo- 
site diverting stories. This is apt to be taken for the 
effect of pure nature, and that the rather, because it is 
not got by rules, and those who excel in either of them, 
never purposely set themselves to the study of it as an 
art to be learnt. But yet it is true that, at first, some 
lucky hit which took with somebody, and gained him 
commendation, encouraged him to try again, inclined 
his thoughts and endeavors that way, till at last he 
insensibly got a facility in it without perceiving how ; 
and that is attributed wholly to nature, which was 
much more the effect of use and practise. I do not 
deny that natural disposition may often give the first 
rise to it ; but that never carries a man far without use 
and iexercise, and it is practise alone that brings the 
powers of the mind as well as those of the body to their 
perfection. Many a good poetic vein is buried under a 
trade, and never produces anything for want of improve- 
ment. We see the ways of discourse and reasoning are 
very different, even concerning the same matter, at court 
and in the university. And he that will go but from 
Westminster Hall to the Exchange, will find a different 
genius and turn in their ways of talking ; and one cannot 
think that all whose lot fell in the city were born with 
different parts from those who were bred at the univer- 
sity or inns of court. 

To what purpose all this, but to show that the 
difference, so observable in men's understandings and 
parts, does not arise so much from the natural faculties, 
as [from] acquired habits ? He would be laughed at 
that should go about to make a fine dancer out of a 
country hedger at past fifty. And he will not have 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 221 

much better success who shall endeavor at that age to 
make a man reason well, or speak handsomely, who has 
never been used to it, though you should lay before him 
a collection of all the best precepts of logic or oratory. 
Nobody is made anything by [the] hearing of rules, or 
laying them up in his memory ; practise must settle the 
habit of doing without reflecting on the rule ; and you 
may as well hope to make a good painter or musician, 
extempore, by a lecture and instruction in the arts of 
music and painting, as a coherent thinker or strict 
reasoner, by a set of rules showing him wherein right 
reasoning consists. 



BROTHERS AND A SERMON. 

JEAN INGELOW. 

And the sun went into the west, and down 

Upon the water stooped an orange cloud, 

And the pale milky reaches flushed, as glad 

To wear its colors ; and the sultry air 

Went out to sea, and puffed the sails of ships 

With thymy wafts, the breath of trodden grass 

It took, moreover, music ; for across 

The heather belt and over pasture land 

Came the sweet monotone of one slow bell, 

And parted time into divisions rare, 

Whereof each morsel brought its own delight. 

" They ring for service," quoth the fisherman ; 
" Our parson preaches in the church to-night." 

" And do the people go ? " my brother asked. 

" Aye, Sir ; they count it mean to stay away, 
He takes it so to heart. He 's a rare man, 
Our parson ; half a head above us all." 



222 SELECTIONS. 

"That 's a great gift, and notable," said I. 

" Aye, Sir ; and when he was a younger man, 
He went out in the life-boat very oft, — 
Before the ' Grace of Sunderland ' was wrecked. 
He 's never been his own man since that hour ; 
For there were thirty men aboard of her, 
Anigh as close as you are now to me, 
And ne'er a one was saved. 

" They 're lying now, 
With two small children, in a row : the church 
And yard are full of seamen's graves, and few 
Have any names. 

" She bumped upon the reef ; 
Our parson, my young son, and several more 
Were lashed together with a two-inch rope, 
And crept along to her, their mates ashore 
Ready to haul them in. The gale was high, 
The sea was all a boiling, seething froth, 
And God Almighty's guns were going off, — 
And the land trembled. 

" When she took the ground, 
She went to pieces like a lock of hay 
Tossed from a pitchfork. Ere it came to that, 
The captain reeled on deck with two small things, 
One on each arm — his little lad and lass. 
Their hair was long, and blew before his face, 
Or else we thought he had been saved ; he fell, 
But held them fast. The crew, poor luckless souls ! 
The breakers licked them off ; and some were crushed, 
Some swallowed in the yeast, some flung up dead, 
The dear breath beaten out of them : not one 
Jumped from the wreck upon the reef to catch 
The hands that strained to reach, but tumbled back 
With eyes wide open. But the captain lay 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 223 

And clung — the only man alive. They prayed, — 
' For God's sake, captain, throw the children here ! ' 
' Throw them ! ' our parson cried ; and then she struck : 

And he threw one, a pretty two-years child ; 

But the gale dashed him on the slippery verge, 

And down he went. They say they heard him cry. 

Then he rose up, and took the other one ; 
And all our men reached out their hungry arms, 
And cried out, ' Throw her ! ' and he did : 
He threw her right against the parson's breast, 
And all at once the sea broke over them, 
And they that saw it from the shore have said 
It struck the wreck, and piecemeal scattered it, 
Just as a woman might the lump of salt 
That 'twixt her hands into the kneading-pan 
She breaks and crumbles on her rising bread. 

We hauled our men in : two of them were dead ; — 
The sea had beaten them ; their heads hung down : 
Our parson's arms were empty ; for the wave 
Had torn away the pretty, pretty lamb ; 
We often see him stand beside her grave : 
But 'twas no fault of his, — no fault of his. 

I ask your pardon, Sirs ; I prate and prate, 

And never have I said what brought me here ; 

Sirs, if you want a boat to-morrow morn, 

I 'm bold to say there 's ne'er a boat like mine." 

Aye, that was what we wanted," we replied ; 

A boat, his boat ; " and off he went, well pleased. 

We, too, rose up (the crimson in the sky 
Flushed our faces), and went sauntering on, 
And thought to reach our lodging, by the cliff. 
And up and down among the heather beds, 
And up and down between the sheaves, we sped, 
Doubling and winding ; for a long ravine 



224 SELECTIONS. 

Ran up into the land and cut us off, 
Pushing out slippery ledges for the birds, 
And rent with many a crevice, where the wind 
Had laid up drifts of empty egg-shells, swept 
From the bare berths of gulls and guillemots. 

So, as it chanced, we lighted on a path 
That led into a nutwood ; and our talk 
Was louder than beseemed — if we had known — 
With argument and laughter ; for the path, 
As we sped onward, took a sudden turn 
Abrupt, and we came out on churchyard grass, 
And close upon a porch, and face to face 
With those within, and with the thirty graves. 

We heard the voice of one who preached within, 
And stopped. " Come on," my brother whispered me 
" It were more decent that we enter now ; 
Come on ! we '11 hear this rare old demigod : 
I like strong men and large ; I like gray heads, 
And grand gruff voices, hoarse though this may be 
With shouting in the storm." 

It was not hoarse, — 
The voice that preached to those few fishermen, 
And women, nursing mothers with the babes 
Hushed on their breasts ; and yet it held them not : 
Their drowsy eyes were drawn to look at us, 
Till, having leaned our rods against the wall, 
And left the dogs at watch, we entered, sat, 
And were apprised that, though he saw us not, 
The parson knew that he had lost the eyes 
And ears of those before him ; for he made 
A pause — a long, dead pause — and dropped his arms, 
And stood awaiting, till I felt the red 
Mount to my brow. 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 22; 

And a soft, fluttering stir 
Passed over all, and every mother hushed 
The babe beneath her shawl, and he turned round, 
And met our eyes, unused to diffidence, 
But diffident of his ; then with a sigh 
Fronted the folk, lifted his grand gray head, 
And said, as one that pondered now the words 
He had been preaching on with new surprise, 
And found fresh marvel in their sound, " Behold ! 
Behold ! " saith he, " I stand at the door, and knock." 

Then said the parson : " What ! and shall he wait, 

And must he wait, not only till we say, 

Good Lord, the house is clean, the hearth is swept, 

The children sleep, the mackerel-boats are m, 

And all the nets are mended ; therefore I 

Will slowly to the door and open it ; ' 

But must he also wait where still, behold ! 

He stands and knocks, while we do say, ' Good Lord, 

The gentlefolk are come to worship here, 

And I will up and open to thee soon ; 

But first I pray a little longer wait, 

For I am taken up with them ; my eyes 

Must needs regard the fashion of their clothes, 

And count the gains I think to make by them ; 

Forsooth, they are of much account, good Lord ! 

Therefore have patience with me — wait, dear Lord ! 

Or come again ? ' 

" What ! must he wait for this — 
For this ? Aye, he doth wait for this ; and still, 
Waiting for this, he, patient, raileth not ; 
Waiting for this, e'en this, he saith, ' Behold ! 
I stand at the door, and knock.' 

" O patient hand, 
Knocking and waiting — knocking in the night 
When work is done ! I charge you, by the sea 

!5 



22fi SELECTIONS. 

Whereby you fill your children's mouths, and by 
The might of him that made it — fishermen ! 
I charge you, mothers ! by the mother's milk 
He drew, and by his Father, God over all, 
Blessed forever, that ye answer him ! 
Open the door with shame, if ye have sinned ; 
If ye be sorry, open it with sighs. 
Albeit the place be bare for poverty, 
And comfortless for lack of plenishing, 
Be not abashed for that, but open it, 
And take him in that comes to sup with thee ; 
' Behold ! ' he saith, ' I stand at the door, and knock 



Now hear me : there be troubles in this world 
That no man can escape, and there is one 
That lieth hard and heavy on my soul, 
Concerning that which is to come : — 



" I say 
As a man that knows what earthly trouble means, 
I will not bear this one ; — I cannot bear 
This vne ; — I cannot bear the weight of you — 
You — every one of you, body and soul ; — 
You, with the care you suffer, and the loss 
That you sustain ; — you, with the growing up 
To peril, maybe with the growing old 
To want, unless before I stand with you 
At the great white throne, I may be free of all, 
And utter to the full what shall discharge 
Mine obligation : nay, I will not wait 
A day ; for every time the black clouds rise, 
And the gale freshens, still I search my soul 
To find if there be aught that can persuade 
To good, or aught forsooth that can beguile 
From evil, that I (miserable man ! 
If that be so) have left unsaid, undone. 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 227 

So that when any, risen from sunken wrecks. 

Or rolled in by the billows to the edge 

Of the everlasting strand — what time the sea 

Gives up her dead — shall meet me. they may say 

Never, ' Old man, you told us not of this ; 

You left us fisher-lads that had to toil 

Ever in danger of the secret stab 

Of rocks, far deadlier than the dagger ; winds 

Of breath more murderous than the cannon's ; waves 

Mighty to rock us to our death ; and gulfs 

Ready beneath to suck and swallow us in : 

This crime be on your head ; and as for us — 

What shall we do ? ; but rather — nay, not so, 

I will not think it : I will leave' the dead, 

Appealing but to life : I am afraid 

Of you, but not so much if you have sinned 

As for the doubt if sin shall be forgiven. 

The day was, I have been afraid of pride — 

Hard man's hard pride ; but now I am afraid 

Of man's humility. I counsel you, 

By the great God 's great humbleness, and by 

His pity, be not humble overmuch. 

See ! I will show at whose unopened doors 

He stands and knocks, that you may never say. 

I am too mean, too ignorant, too lost ; 

He knocks at other doors, but not at mine.' 



See here ? it is the night ! it is the night ! 
And snow lies thickly. — white untrodden snow 
And the wan moon upon a casement shines — 
A casement crusted o'er with frosty leaves. 
That make her ray less bright upon the floor. 
A woman sits, with hands upon her knees, 
Poor tired soul ! and she has naught to do ; 
For there is neither fire nor candle light : 
The driftwood ash lies cold upon the hearth ; 
The rushlight flickered down an hour ago ; 



228 



SELECTIONS. 

Her children wail a little in their sleep 
For cold and hunger ; and, as if that sound 
Were not enough, another comes to her, 
Over God 's undefiled snow — a song — 
Nay, never hang your heads — I say, a song. 

And doth she curse the ale-house, and the sots 
That drink the night out and their earning there, 
And drink their manly strength and courage down, 
And drink away the little children's bread, 
And starve her, starving by the self-same act 
Her tender suckling, that with piteous eyes 
Looks in her face, till scarcely she has heart 
To work and earn the scanty bit and drop 
That feed the others ? 

" Does she curse the song ? 
I think not, fishermen ; I have not heard 
Such women curse. God 's curse is curse enough. 
To-morrow she will say a bitter thing, 
Pulling her sleeve down lest the bruises show — 
A bitter thing, but meant for an excuse — 
My master is not worse than many men : ' 
But now, aye now, she sitteth dumb and still ; 
No food, no comfort ; cold and poverty 
Bearing her down. 

" My heart is sore for her ; 
How long, how long ? When troubles come of God, — 
When men are frozen out of work, when wives 
Are sick, when working fathers fail and die, 
When boats go down at sea, — then naught behooves 
Like patience ; but for troubles wrought of men 
Patience is hard — I tell you it is hard. 

O thou poor soul ! it is the night — the night ; 

Against thy door drifts up the silent snow, 

Blocking thy threshold : ' Fall,' thou sayest, ' fall, fall, 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 220 

Cold snow, and lie and be trod underfoot. 

Am I not fallen ? wake up and pipe, O wind, — 

Dull wind, and beat and bluster at my door : 

Merciful wind, sing me a hoarse rough song ; 

For there is other music made to-night 

That I would fain not hear. Wake, thou still sea, 

Heavily plunge. Shoot on, white waterfall. 

O, I could long, like thy icicles, 

Freeze, freeze, and hang upon the frosty cliff 

And not complain, so I might melt at last 

In the warm summer sun, as thou wilt do ! 

But woe is me ! I think there is no sun ; 
My sun is sunken, and the night grows dark : 
None care for me. The children cry for bread, 
And I have none, and naught can comfort me ; 
Even if the heavens were free to such as I, 
It were not much ; for death is long to wait, 
And heaven is far to go.' 

" And speakest thou thus, 
Despairing of the sun that sets to thee, 
And of the earthly love that wanes to thee, 
And of the heaven that lieth far from thee ? 
Peace, peace, fond fool ! One draweth near thy door 
Whose footsteps leave no print across the snow : 
Thy sun has risen with comfort in his face, 
The smile of heaven, to warm thy frozen heart 
And bless with saintly hand. What ! is it long 
To wait, and far to go ? Thou shalt not go ; 
Behold, across the snow to thee He comes, — 
Thy heaven descends ; and is it long to wait ? 
Thou shalt not wait : ' This night, this night, 1 He saith, 
' I stand at the door, and knock.' 

It is enough : can such a one be here — 
Yea, here ? O God forgive you fishermen ! 
One ! is there only one ? But do thou know, 



230 SELECTIONS. 

woman pale for want, if thou art here, 

That on thy lot much thought is spent in heaven ; 
And, coveting the heart a hard man broke, 
One standeth patient, watching in the night, 
And waiting in the daytime. 

"What shall be 
If thou wilt answer ? — He will smile on thee ; 
One smile of his shall be enough to heal 
The wound of man's neglect ; and He will sigh, 
Pitying the trouble which that sigh shall cure ; 
And He will speak — speak in the desolate night — 
In the dark night : ' For me a thorny crown 
Men wove, and nails were driven in my hands 
And feet : there was an earthquake, and I died ; — 

1 died, and am alive forevermore. 

" '. I died for thee ; for thee I am alive, 
And my humanity doth mourn for thee, 
For thou art mine ; and all thy little ones, 
They, too, are mine, are mine ! Behold, the house 
Is dark, but there is brightness where the sons 
Of God are singing ; and, behold, the heart 
Is troubled : yet the nations walk in white : 
They have forgotten how to weep ; and thou 
Shalt also come, and I will foster thee, 
And satisfy thy soul ; and thou s-halt warm 
Thy trembling life beneath the smile of God. 
A little while — it is a little while — 
A little while, and I will comfort thee ; 
I go away, but I will come again.' " 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 231 

ADVANTAGES OF TRUTH AND SINCERITY. 

BISHOP TILLOTSON. 

Truth and reality have all the advantages of appear- 
ance, and many more. If the show of anything be good 
for anything, I am sure sincerity is better ; for why does 
any man dissemble, or seem to be that which he is not, 
but because he thinks it good to have such a quality as 
he pretends to ? For to counterfeit and dissemble, is to 
put on the appearance of some real excellency. Now, 
the best way in the world for a man to seem to be 
anything, is really to be what he would seem to be. 
Besides that, it is many times as troublesome to make 
good the pretense of a good quality, as to have it ; and 
if a man have it not, it is ten to one but he is discovered 
to want it, and then all his pains and labor to seem 
to have it are lost. There is something unnatural in 
painting, which a skilful eye will easily discern from 
native beauty and complexion. 

It is hard to personate and act a part long ; for 
where truth is not at the bottom, nature will always be 
endeavoring to return, and will peep out and betray her- 
self one time or other. Therefore, if any man think it 
convenient to seem good, let him be so indeed, and then 
his goodness will appear to everybody's satisfaction ; so 
that, upon all accounts, sincerity is true wisdom. Par- 
ticularly as to the affairs of this world, integrity hath 
many advantages over all the fine and artificial ways 
of dissimulation and deceit ; it is much the plainer and 
easier, much the safer and more secure way of dealing 
in the world ; it has less of trouble and difficulty, of 
entanglement and perplexity, of danger and hazard in it ; 



232 SELECTIONS. 

it is the shortest and nearest way to our end, carrying 
us thither in a straight line, and will hold out and last 
longest. The arts of deceit and cunning do continually 
grow weaker, and less effectual and serviceable to them 
that use them ; whereas integrity gains strength by use ; 
and the more and longer any man practiseth it, the 
greater service it does him, by confirming his reputation, 
and encouraging those with whom he hath to do to 
repose the greatest trust and confidence in him, which 
is an unspeakable advantage in the business and affairs 
of life. 

Truth is always consistent with itself, and needs 
nothing to help it out ; it is always near at hand, and 
sits upon our lips, and is ready to drop out before we are 
aware ; whereas a lie is troublesome, and sets a man 's 
invention upon the rack, and one trick needs a great 
many more to make it good. It is like building upon a 
false foundation, which continually stands in need of 
props to shore it up, and proves at last more chargeable 
than to have raised a substantial building at first upon a 
true and solid foundation ; for-sincerity is firm and sub- 
stantial, and there is nothing hollow or unsound in it, and 
because it is plain and open, fears no discovery, of which 
the crafty man is always in danger ; and when he thinks 
he walks in the dark, all his pretenses are so transparent, 
that he that runs may read them. He is the last man 
that finds himself to be found out ; and whilst he takes 
it for granted that he makes fools of others, he renders 
himself ridiculous. 

Add to all this, that sincerity is the most compendious 
wisdom, and an excellent instrument for the speedy des- 
patch of business ; it creates confidence in those we have 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 233 

to deal with, saves the labor of many inquiries, and 
brings things to an issue in few words ; it is like travel- 
ing in a plain, beaten road, which commonly brings a 
man sooner to his journey 's end than byways, in which 
men often lose themselves. In a word, whatsoever 
convenience may be thought to be in falsehood and dis- 
simulation, it is soon over ; but the inconvenience of it 
is perpetual, because it brings a man under an ever- 
lasting jealousy and suspicion, so that he is not believed 
when he speaks truth, nor trusted perhaps when he 
means honestly. When a man has once forfeited the 
reputation of his integrity, he is set fast, and nothing- 
will then serve his turn, neither truth nor falsehood. 
And I have often thought that God hath, in his great 
wisdom, hid from men of false and dishonest minds the 
wonderful advantages of truth and integrity to the pros- 
perity even of our worldly affairs. These men are so 
blinded by their covetousness and ambition, that they 
cannot look beyond a present advantage, nor forbear to 
seize upon it, though by ways never so indirect ; they 
cannot see so far as to the remote consequences of a 
steady integrity, and the vast benefit and advantages 
which it will bring a man at last. Were but this sort 
of men wise and clear-sighted enough to discern this, 
they would be honest out of very knavery, not out of any 
love to honesty and virtue, but with a crafty design to 
promote and advance more effectually their own inter- 
ests ; and therefore the justice of the divine providence 
hath hid this truest point of wisdom from their eyes, 
that bad men might not be upon equal terms with the 
just and upright, and serve their own wicked designs by 
honest and lawful means. 



234 SELECTIONS. 

Indeed, if a man were only to deal in the world for a 
day, and should never have occasion to converse more 
with mankind, never more need their good opinion or 
good word, it were then no great matter — speaking as 
to the concernments of this world — if a man spent his 
reputation all at once, and ventured it at one throw ; 
but if he be to continue in the world, and would have 
the advantage of conversation whilst he is in it, let him 
make use of truth and sincerity in all his words and 
actions ; for nothing but this will last and hold out to 
the end : all other arts will fail, but truth and integrity 
will carry a man through, and bear him out to the last. 



THE BAD BARGAIN. 

HANNAH MORE. 

See, there the Prince of Darkness stands 
With baits for souls in both his hands ! 
To one he offers empire whole, 
And gives a scepter for a soul ; 
To one he freely gives in barter 
A peerage, or a star and garter ; 
To one he pays polite attention, 
And begs him just to take a pension. 

Some are so fixed with love of fame 

He bribes them with an empty name. 

For fame they toil, they preach, they write, 

Give alms, build hospitals, or fight ; 

For human praise renounce salvation, 

And sell their souls for reputation. 

See at yon needy tradesman's shop 

The universal tempter stop ! 

Wouldst thou, " he cries, " increase thy treasure 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 235 

Use lighter weights and scantier measure : 
Thus thou shalt thrive." The trader's willing, 
And sells his soul to get a shilling. 



PARADISE.— THE GOSPEL OF LABOR. 

BISHOP HALL. 

Every earth was not fit for Adam, but a garden, a 
paradise. What excellent pleasures and rare varieties 
have men found in gardens planted by the hands of men ! 
And yet all the world of men cannot make one twig, or 
leaf, or spire of grass. When he that made the matter, 
undertakes the fashion, how must it needs be, beyond 
our capacity, excellent ! No herb, no flower, no tree, 
was wanting there, that might be for ornament or use, 
whether for sight, or for scent, or for taste. The 
bounty of God wrought further than to necessity, even 
to comfort and recreation. Why are we niggardly to 
ourselves, when God is liberal ? But, for all this, if 
God had not there conversed with man, no abundance 
could have made him blessed. 

Yet, behold ! that which was man's storehouse was 
also his workhouse ; his pleasure was his task : paradise 
served not only to feed his senses, but to exercise his 
hands. If happiness had consisted in doing nothing, 
man had not been employed ; all his delights could not 
have made him happy in an idle life. Man, therefore, 
is no sooner made than he is set to work ; neither great- 
ness nor perfection can privilege a folded hand ; he must 
labor because he was happy ; how much more we, that 
we may be ! This first labor of his was, as without 



236 SELECTIONS. 

necessity, so without pains, without weariness ; how 
much more cheerfully we go about our businesses, so 
much nearer we come to our paradise. 



TRUE SENSIBILITY. 

HANNAH MORE. 

A gift is not peculiar to the good : 

'T is often but the virtue of the blood ; 

And what would seem compassion's moral flow, 

Is but a circulation swift or slow. 

But to divert it to its proper course, 

There wisdom's power appears, there reason's force. 

If, ill directed, it pursues the wrong, 

It adds new strength to what before was strong ; 

But if religious bias rules the soul, 

Then Sensibility exalts the whole. 



ELEMENTS OF TRUE GREATNESS. 

JOHN MILTON SCOTT. 
In "Life-studies." 

Spiritual brotherhood does not mean equality of 
talents, but the appreciation of the great works of 
another, although those works lie beyond the possibility 
of our hands to do. He is the spiritual brother of 
Emerson who can appreciatively think Emerson's 
thoughts after him, and not he only who can utter 
first-hand thoughts as great and original as Emerson's. 
He is the spiritual brother of Shakespeare who can 
interpret Shakespeare, and he who, although unable to 
interpret Shakespeare to others, responds to him when 
interpreted, feels, when reading him, the majesty of 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 237 

genius, the fascination of the pity and pathos of our 
human life moving through his plays. Not he alone who 
can write noble songs, but he who can feel their spell 
when written, who can answer to their inspiration, who 
can somewhat live out their beauty, is spiritual brother 
to Whittier. 

* * # * -5f 

The greatness of your soul is measured to you in 
your appreciation of the greatness of others, although 
there may be a humility about you, refusing to call 
yourself great. When your heart is stirred with a great 
book, you have a greatness within you that is akin to 
the greatness in the book. That you are moved with 
the concord of sweet sounds is an evidence to you that 
there is music in your soul, although you may never be 
able to sing it forth, or make the violin, for you, enchant 
it to the winds. If a noble action stirs your soul into 
some ecstasy, it is because in your soul there is a kindred 
nobleness to his who did the deed. If a beautiful life 
fills you with admiration, it is because within your own 
soul there is a kindred beauty. If human goodness, as 
embodied in some man or woman, stirs your heart as 
heroic bugles the hearts of warriors, it is because some- 
thing of your human nature is woven of the same great 
fabric. 

Except for the religious spirit within us, there could 
be no response to the religious teachers God has sent 
into the world for our help. The greatness of their 
words is already within us, as music is in the instru- 
ment, and needs only the help of a master's hand to sing 
out its glories. 



238 SELECTIONS. 



THE SABBATH. 

CHARLES T. BROOKS. 

The Sabbath is here ! 
Like a dove out of heaven descending, 
Toil and turmoil suspending, 
" Comes in the glad morn ! 
It smiles on the highway, 
And down the green byway, 
'Mong fields of ripe corn. 

The Sabbath is here ! 
Behold ! the full sheaves own the blessing, 
So plainly confessing 

A Father's mild care. 
In Sabbath-noon stillness, 
The crops in their fulness 
How graceful and fair ! 

The Sabbath is here ! 
No clank of the plow-chain we hear, now, — 
No lash, far or near, now, — 
No creaking of wheels. 
With million low voices 
The harvest rejoices 
All over the fields. 

The Sabbath is here ! 
The seed we in faith and hope planted ; 
God's blessing was granted, 
It sprang to the light ; 
We gaze now, and listen 
Where fields wave and glisten, 
With grateful delight. 

The Sabbath is here ! 
Give praise to the Father, whose blessing 
The fields are confessing ! 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 239 

Soon the reapers will come, 
With rustling and ringing 
Of sickles, and bringing 

The yellow sheaves home. 

The Sabbath is here ! 
The seed we in fond hope are sowing 
Will one day rise, glowing 

In the smile of God's love, 
In dust though we leave it, 
We trust to receive it 
In glory above ! 



POWER OF INTERPRETATION. 

JOHN MILTON SCOTT. 
In "Life-studies." 

Unto its illumination in the brain, the light needs the 
eye, else must it abide a darkness. Light within us 
interprets the light without us. Only by our respon- 
siveness to the sound, only by our unity with it, can 
there be any hearing at all. Otherwise we are abiding 
in the unbroken silence. Everything without us can 
have a meaning to us only as there is established a unity 
between what lies within and what lies without. There 
is a great and unsearched kinship between the world 
that lies within man and the world that lies without 
him. By the grace of that fact we are alive in the 
world and the world is alive in us. Except for a rose- 
beauty in us, the rose in our garden could have no 
charms for our eye. Except for a bird-beauty in us, 
the thrush without could be no enchantment for our ear. 
Except for a child-beauty within us, the little child 



240 SELECTIONS. 

would be no joy to our hearts. Except for a great 
human love within us, the men and women of the world 
could not interest us, could not become a part of us, 
could not make us great. 



FORGIVENESS. 

WHITTIER. 

My heart was heavy ; for its trust had been 

Abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong ; 

So, turning gloomily from my fellow men, 
One summer Sabbath day I strolled among 

The green mounds of the village burial-place ; 
Where, pondering how all human love and hate 
Find one sad level ; and how, soon or late, 

Wronged and wrong-doer, each with meekened face, 
And cold hands folded over a still heart, 

Pass the green threshold of our common grave, 
Whither all footsteps tend, whence none depart, 

Awed for myself, and pitying my race, 
Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave, 
Swept all my pride away, and trembling I forgave ! 



GOD SEES NOT AS MAN SEES. 

MRS. E. G. WHITE. 

' 'Now he [David] was ruddy, and withal of a beau- 
tiful countenance, and goodly to look to." As Samuel 
beheld with pleasure the handsome, manly, modest 
shepherd boy, the voice of the Lord spoke to the 
prophet, saying, "Arise, anoint him; for this is he." 
David had proved himself brave and faithful in the 
humble office of a shepherd, and now God had chosen 
him to be captain of his people. "Then Samuel took 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 241 

the horn of oil, and anointed him in the midst of [from 
among] his brethren ; and the Spirit of the Lord came 
upon David from that day forward." The prophet had 
accomplished his appointed work, and with a relieved 
heart he returned to Ramah. 

Samuel had not made known his errand, even to the 
family of Jesse, and the ceremony of anointing David 
had been performed in secret. It was an intimation to 
the youth of the high destiny awaiting him, that amid 
all the varied experiences and perils of his coming years, 
this knowledge might inspire him to be true to the pur- 
pose of God to be accomplished by his life. 

The great honor conferred upon David did not serve 
to elate him. Notwithstanding the high position which 
he was to occupy, he quietly continued his employment, 
content to await the development of the Lord's plans in 
his own time and way. As humble and modest as before 
his anointing, the shepherd boy returned to the hills, 
and watched and guarded his flock as tenderly as ever. 
But with new inspiration he composed his melodies, 
and played upon his harp. Before him spread a land- 
scape of rich and varied beauty. The vines, with their 
clustering fruit, brightened in the sunshine. The forest 
trees, with their green foliage, swayed in the breeze. 
He beheld the sun flooding the heavens with light, 
coming forth as a bridegroom out of his chamber, and 
rejoicing as a strong man to run a race. There were the 
bold summits of the hills, reaching toward the sky ; in 
the far-away distance rose the barren cliffs of the moun- 
tain wall of Moab ; above all spread the tender blue of 
the overarching heavens. And beyond was God. He 
[David] could not see him, but his works were full of 
16 



242 SELECTIONS. 

his praise. The light of day, gilding forest and moun- 
tain, meadow and stream, carried the mind up to behold 
the Father of lights, the Author of every good and 
perfect gift. Daily revelations of the character and 
majesty of his Creator, filled the young poet's heart 
with adoration and rejoicing. In contemplation of God 
and his works, the faculties of David's mind and heart 
were developing and strengthening for the work of his 
after-life. He was daily coming into a more intimate 
communion with God. His mind was constantly pene- 
trating into new depths, for fresh themes to inspire his 
song, and to wake the music of his harp. The rich 
melody of his voice poured out upon the air, echoed 
from the hills as if responsive to the rejoicing of the 
angels' songs in heaven. 

Who can measure the results of those years of toil 
and wandering among the lonely hills ? The commun- 
ion with nature and with God, the care of his flocks, 
the perils and deliverances, the griefs and joys, of his 
lowly lot, were not only to mold the character of David, 
and to influence his future life, but through the psalms 
of Israel's sweet singer, they were, in all coming ages, 
to kindle love and faith in the hearts of God's people, 
bringing them nearer to the ever-loving heart of Him 
in whom all his creatures live. 

David, in the beauty and vigor of his young man- 
hood, was preparing to take a high position with the 
noblest of earth. His talents, as precious gifts from 
God, were employed to extol the glory of the divine 
Giver. His opportunities of contemplation and medi- 
tation served to enrich him with that wisdom and piety 
that made him beloved of God and angels. As he con- 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 243 

templated the perfections of his Creator, clearer concep- 
tions of God opened before his soul. Obscure themes 
were illuminated, difficulties were made plain, perplexi- 
ties were harmonized, and each ray of new light called 
forth fresh bursts of rapture and sweeter anthems of 
devotion to the glory of God and the Redeemer. The 
love that moved him, the sorrows that beset him, the 
triumphs that attended him, were all themes for his 
active thought ; and as he beheld the love of God in 
all the providences of his life, his heart throbbed with 
more fervent adoration and gratitude, his voice rang 
out in a richer melody, his harp was swept with more 
exultant joy ; and the shepherd boy proceeded from 
strength to strength, from knowledge to knowledge ; 
for the Spirit of the Lord was upon him. 



THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. 

N. P. WILLIS. 

Freshly the cool breath of the coming eve 
Stole through the lattice, and the dying girl 
Felt it upon her forehead. She had lain 
Since the hot noontide in a breathless trance — 
Her thin pale fingers clasped within the hand 
Of the heart-broken Ruler, and her breast, . 
Like the dead marble, white and motionless. 
The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips, 
And, as it stirred with the awakening wind, 
The dark lids lifted from her languid eyes, 
•And her slight fingers moved, and heavily 
She turned upon her pillow. He was there — 
The same loved, tireless watcher, and she looked 
Into his face until her sight grew dim 
With the fast-falling tears ; and, with a sigh 



244 SELECTIONS. 

Of tremulous weakness murmuring his name, 

She gently drew his hand upon her lips, 

And kissed it as she wept. The old man sunk 

Upon his knees, and in the drapery 

Of the rich curtains buried up his face ; 

And when the twilight fell, the silken folds 

Stirred with his prayer, but the slight hand he held 

Had ceased its pressure — and he could not hear, 

In the dead, utter silence, that a breath 

Came through her nostrils ; — and her temples gave 

To his nice touch no pulse ; — and, at her mouth, 

He held the lightest curl that on her neck 

Lay with a mocking beauty, and his gaze 

Ached with its deathly stillness. 

* * * * * 

It was night, — 
And softly, o'er the Sea of Galilee, 
Danced the breeze-ridden ripples to the shore, 
Tipped with the silver sparkles of the moon. 
The breaking waves played low upon the beach 
Their constant music ; but the air beside 
Was still as starlight, and the Savior's voice, 
In its rich cadences unearthly sweet, 
Seemed like some just-born harmony in the air, 
Waked by the power of wisdom. On a rock, 
With the broad moonlight falling on his brow, 
He stood, and taught the people. At his feet 
Lay his small scrip, and pilgrim's scallop-shell, 
And staff, — for they had waited by the sea 
Till he came o'er from Gadarene, and prayed 
For his wont teachings as he came to land. 
His hair was parted meekly on his brow, 
And the long curls from off his shoulders fell, 
As he leaned forward earnestly ; and still 
The same calm cadence, passionless and deep — 
And in his looks the same mild majesty — 
And in his mien the sadness mixed with power — 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 245 

Filled them with love and wonder. Suddenly, 
As on his words entrancedly they hung, 
The crowd divided, and among them stood 
Jatrus the Ruler. With his flowing robe 
Gathered in haste about his loins, he came, 
And fixed his eyes on Jesus. Closer drew 
The twelve disciples to their Master's side ; 
And silently the people shrunk away, 
And left the haughty Ruler in the midst 
Alone. A moment longer on the face 
Of the meek Nazarene he kept his gaze ; 
And, as the twelve looked on him, by the light 
Of the clear moon they saw a glistening tear 
Steal to his silver beard ; and, drawing nigh 
Unto the Savior's feet, he took the hem 
Of his coarse mantle, and with trembling hands 
Pressed it upon his lids, and murmured low, 

" Master ! my daughter ! " 

* * * * # 

The same silvery light 
That shone upon the lone rock by the sea, 
Slept on the Ruler's lofty capitals, 
As at the door he stood, and welcomed in 
Jesus and his disciples. All was still. 
The echoing vestibule gave back the slide 
Of their loose sandals, and the arrowy beam 
Of moonlight, slanting to the marble floor, 
Lay like a spell of silence in the rooms, 
As Jairus led them on. With hushing steps 
He trod the winding stair ; but ere he touched 
The latchet, from within a whisper came, 

" Trouble the Master not, — for she is dead ! " 
And his faint hand fell nerveless at his side, 
And his steps faltered, and his broken voice 
Choked in its utterance ; — but a gentle hand 
Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear 
The Savior's voice sank thrillingly and low, 

" She is not dead — but sleepeth," 



246 SELECTIONS. 

They passed in. 
The spice-lamps in the alabaster urns 
Burned dimly, and the white and fragrant smoke 
Curled indolently on the chamber walls. 
The silken curtains slumbered in their folds — 
Not even a tassel stirring in the air — 
And as the Savior stood beside the bed, 
And prayed inaudibly, the Ruler heard 
The quickening division of his breath, 
As he grew earnest inwardly,, There came 
A gradual brightness o'er his calm, sad face ; 
And, drawing nearer to the bed, he moved 
The silken curtains silently apart, 
And looked upon the maiden. 

Like a form 
Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she lay — 
The linen vesture folded on her breast, 
And over it her white transparent hands, 
The blood still rosy in their tapering nails. 
A line of pearl ran through her parted lips, 
And in her nostrils, spiritually thin, 
The breathing curve was mockingly like life ; 
And round beneath the faintly tinted skin 
Ran the light branches of the azure veins ; 
And on her cheek the jet lash overlay, 
Matching the arches penciled on her brow. 
Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose 
Upon her pillow, hid her small round ears 
In curls of glossy blackness ; and about 
Her polished neck, scarce touching it, they hung, 
Like airy shadows, floating as they slept. 
'T was heavenly beautiful. The Savior raised 
Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out 
The snowy fingers in his palm, and said, 
' ' Maiden, arise! " — and suddenly a flush 
Shot o'er her forehead, and along her lips 
And through her cheek the rallied color ran ; 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. '24:1 

And the still outline of her graceful form 
Stirred in the linen vesture ; and she clasped 
The Savior's hand, and fixing her dark eyes 



EVILS OF AN ENVIOUS SPIRIT. 



The demon of jealousy entered the heart of the 
king. He was angry because David was exalted above 
himself in the song of the women of Israel. In place of 
subduing these envious feelings, he displayed the weak- 
ness of his character, and exclaimed, ' ' They have 
ascribed unto David ten thousands, and to me they have 
ascribed but thousands ; and what can he have more 
but the kingdom ? " 

One great defect in the character of Saul was his 
love of approbation. This trait had had a controlling 
influence over his actions and thoughts ; everything was 
marked by his desire for praise and self-exaltation. His 
standard of right and wrong was the low standard of 
popular applause. No man is safe who lives that he 
may please men, and does not seek first for the appro- 
bation of God. It was the ambition of Saul to be first 
in the estimation of men ; and when this song of praise 
was sung, a settled conviction entered the mind of the 
king, that David would obtain the hearts of the people, 
and reign in his stead. 

Saul opened his heart to the spirit of jealousy by 
which his soul was poisoned. Notwithstanding the 
lessons which he had received from the prophet Samuel. 
instructing him that God would accomplish whatsoever 



248 SELECTIONS. 

he chose, and that no one could hinder it, the king 
made it evident that he had no true knowledge of the 
plans or power of God. The monarch of Israel was 
opposing his will to the will of the Infinite One. Saul 
had not learned, while ruling the kingdom of Israel, 
that he should rule his own spirit. He allowed his 
impulses to control his judgment, until he was plunged 
into a fury of passion. He had paroxysms of rage, 
when he was ready to take the life of any who dared 
oppose his will. From this frenzy he would pass into a 
state of despondency and self-contempt, and remorse 
would take possession of his soul. 

David's blameless character aroused the wrath of 
the king ; he deemed that the very life and presence 
of David cast a reproach upon him, since by contrast 
it presented his own character to disadvantage. It was 
envy that made Saul miserable, and put the humble 
subject of his throne in jeopardy. What untold mis- 
chief has this evil trait of character worked in our world ! 
The same enmity existed in the heart of Saul that stirred 
the heart of Cain against his brother Abel, because 
Abel's works were righteous, and God honored him, 
and his own works were evil, and the Lord could not 
bless him. Envy is the offspring of pride, and if it is 
entertained in the heart, it will lead to hatred, and 
eventually to revenge and murder. 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 240 

MAGNANIMITY. 

MRS. E. G. WHITE. 

Saul rose up and went out of the cave to continue 
his search, when a voice fell upon his startled ears, 
saying, "My lord the king." He turned to see who 
was addressing him, and lo ! it was the son of Jesse, — 
the man whom he had so long desired to have in his 
power that he might kill him. David bowed himself 
to the king, acknowledging him as his master. Then 
he addressed Saul in these words : ' ' Wherefore hearest 
thou men's words, saying, Behold, David seeketh thy 
hurt ? Behold, this day thine eyes have seen how that 
the Lord had delivered thee to-day into mine hand in 
the cave ; and some bade me kill thee ; but mine eye 
spared thee ; and I said, I will not put forth mine hand 
against my lord ; for he is the Lord's anointed. More- 
over, my father, see, yea, see the skirt of thy robe in 
my hand ; for in that I cut off the skirt of thy robe, and 
killed thee not, know thou and see that there is neither 
evil nor transgression in mine hand, and I have not 
sinned against thee ; yet thou huntest my soul to 
take it." 

When Saul heard the words of David, he was hum- 
bled, and could not but admit their truthfulness. His 
feelings were deeply moved as he realized how com- 
pletely he had been in the power of the man whose life 
he sought. David stood before him in conscious inno- 
cence. With a softened spirit, Saul exclaimed, " Is 
this thy voice, my son David ? And Saul lifted up his 
voice, and wept." Then he declared to David : "Thou 
art more righteous than I ; for thou hast rewarded me 



250 SELECTIONS. 

good, whereas I have rewarded thee evil. . . . For if 
a man find his enemy, will he let him go well away ? 
Wherefore the Lord reward thee good for that thou hast 
done unto me this day. And now, behold, I know well 
that, thou shalt surely be king, and that the kingdom of 
Israel shall be established in thine hand." And David 
made a covenant with Saul that when this should take 
place he would favorably regard the house of Saul, and 
not cut off his name. 

Knowing what he did of Saul's past course, David 
could put no confidence in the assurances of the king, 
nor hope that his penitent condition would long con- 
tinue. So when Saul returned to his home, David 
remained in the strongholds of the mountains. 



POWER OF TRUE POETRY. 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

He spoke of Burns : men rude and rough 
Pressed round to hear the praise of one 

Whose heart was made of manly, simple stuff 
As homespun as their own. 

And, when he read, they forward leaned, 
Drinking, with thirsty hearts and ears, 

His brook-like songs whom glory never weaned 
From humble smiles and tears. 



Slowly there grew a tender awe, 

Sun-like, o'er faces brown and hard, 

As if in him who read they felt and saw 
Some presence of the bard. 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 251 

It was a sight for sin and wrong 

And slavish tyranny to see, — 
A sight to make our faith more pure and strong 

In high humanity. 

I thought, these men will carry hence 

Promptings their former life above, 
And something of a finer reverence 

For beauty, truth, and love. 

God scatters love on every side, 

Freely among his children all ; 
And always hearts are lying open wide, 

Wherein some grains may fall. 

There is no wind but soweth seeds 

Of a more true and open life. 
Which burst, unlooked-for, into high-souled deeds, 

With wayside beauty rife. 



All thoughts that mold the age begin 
Deep down within the primitive soul, 

And from the many slowly upward win 
To one who grasps the whole : 

In his broad breast the feeling deep 
That struggled on the many's tongue, 

Swells to a tide of thought, whose surges leap 
O'er the weak thrones of wrong. 

All thought begins in feeling ; wide 

In the great mass its base is hid, 
And, narrowing up to thought, stands glorified, 

A moveless pyramid. 



252 SELECTIONS. 

Nor is he far astray who deems 

That every hope, which rises and grows broad 
In the world's heart, by ordered impulse streams 

From the great heart of God. 

God wills, man hopes : in common souls 
Hope is but vague and undefined, 

Till from the poet's tongue the message rolls, 
A blessing to his kind. 

Never did poesy appear 

So full of heaven to me, as when 

I saw how it would pierce through pride and fear 
To the lives of coarsest men. 

It may be glorious to write 

Thoughts that shall glad the two or three 
High souls, like those far stars that come in sight 

Once in a century; — 

But better far it is to speak 

One simple word, which now and then 

Shall waken their free nature in the weak 
And friendless sons of men ; — 

To write some earnest verse or line, 
Which, seeking not the praise of art, 

Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine 
In the untutored heart. 

He who doth this, in verse or prose, 

May be forgotten in his day, 
But surely shall be crowned at last with those 

Who live and speak for ay. 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 253 

EFFECTS OF RELIGION IN OLD AGE AND ADVERSITY. 

WILLIAM WILBERFORCE. 

When the pulse beats high, and we are flushed with 
youth, and health, and vigor ; when all goes on prosper- 
ously, and success seems almost to anticipate our wishes, 
then we feel not the want of the consolations of religion : 
but when fortune frowns, or friends forsake us — when 
sorrow, or sickness, or old age comes upon us — then it 
is that the superiority of the pleasures of religion is 
established over those of dissipation and vanity, which 
are ever apt to fly from us when we are most in want of 
their aid. There is scarcely a more melancholy sight 
to a considerate mind, than that of an old man who is a 
stranger to those only true sources of satisfaction. How 
affecting, and at the same time how disgusting, is it to 
see such a one awkwardly catching at the pleasures of 
his younger years, which are now beyond his reach ; or 
feebly attempting to retain them, while they mock his 
endeavors and elude his grasp ! To such a one, 
gloomily, indeed, does the evening of life set in ! All 
is sour and cheerless. He can neither look backward 
with complacency, nor forward with hope ; while the 
aged Christian, relying on the assured mercy * of his 
Redeemer, can calmly reflect that his dismission is at 
hand ; that his redemption draweth nigh. While his 
strength declines, and his faculties decay, he can quietly 
repose himself on the fidelity of God ; and at the very 
entrance of the valley of the shadow of death, he can 
lift up an eye, dim perhaps and feeble, yet occasionally 
sparkling with hope, and confidently looking forward to 
the near possession of his heavenly inheritance, — "to 



254 SELECTIONS. 

those joys which eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, 
neither hath it entered into the heart of man to 
conceive." What striking lessons have we had of the 
precarious tenure of all sublunary possessions ! Wealth, 
and power, and prosperity, — how peculiarly transitory 
and uncertain ! But religion dispenses her choicest 
cordials in the seasons of exigence, in poverty, in exile, 
in sickness, and in death. The essential superiority of 
that support which is derived from religion is less felt, 
at least it is less apparent, when the Christian is in full 
possession of riches and splendor, and rank, and all the 
gifts of nature and fortune. But when all these are 
swept away by the rude hand of time or the rough blasts 
of adversity, the true Christian stands, like the glory of 
the forest, erect and vigorous ; stripped indeed, of his 
summer foliage, but more than ever discovering to the 
observing eye the solid strength of his substantial 
texture. 



THE STATUTE-BOOK NOT NECESSARY TOWARD 
CHRISTIANITY. 

DR. CHALMERS. 

How comes it that Protestantism made such trium- 
phant progress in these realms when it had pains and 
penalties to struggle with ? and how came this progress 
to be arrested from the moment it laid on these pains 
and penalties in its turn ? What have all the enact- 
ments of the statute-book done for the cause of 
Protestantism in Ireland ? and how is it, that when 
single-handed Truth walked through our island with 
the might and prowess of a conqueror, so soon as 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 255 

propped by the authority of the State, and the armor 
of intolerance was given to her, the brilliant career of 
her victories was ended ? It was when she took up the 
carnal and laid down the spiritual weapon — it was then 
that strength went out of her. She was struck with 
impotency on the instant that, from a warfare of prin- 
ciple, it became a warfare of politics. There are gentle- 
men opposed to us, profound in the documents of 
history ; but she has really nothing to offer half so 
instructive as the living history that is now before our 
eyes. With the pains and penalties to fight against, 
the cause of Reformation did almost everything in 
Britain; with the pains and penalties on its side, it has 
done nothing, and worse than nothing, in Ireland. 



INEFFICACY OF MERE MORAL PREACHING. 

DR. CHALMERS. 

And here I cannot but record the effect of an actual 
though undesigned experiment which I prosecuted for 
upward of twelve years amongst you. For the greater 
part of that time I could expatiate on the meanness of 
dishonesty, on the villainy of falsehood, on the despi- 
cable arts of calumny — in a word, upon all those 
deformities of character which awaken the natural 
indignation of the human heart against the pests and 
the disturbers of human society. Now, could I, upon 
the strength of these warm expostulations, have got the 
thief to give up his stealing, and the evil-speaker his 
sensoriousness, and the liar his deviations from truth, 
I should have felt all the repose of one who had gotten 



256 SELECTIONS. 

his ultimate object. It never occurred to me that all 
this might have been done, and yet the soul of every 
hearer have remained in full alienation from God ; and 
that even could I have established, in the bosom of one 
who stole, such a principle of abhorrence at the mean- 
ness of dishonesty that he was prevailed upon to steal 
no more, he might still have retained a heart as 
completely unturned to God, and as totally unpossessed 
by a principle of love to Him, as before. In a word, 
though I might have made him a more upright and 
honorable man, I might have left him as destitute of 
the essence of religious principle as ever. But the 
interesting fact is, that during the whole of that period 
in which I made no attempt against the natural enmity 
of the mind toward God, while I was inattentive to the 
way in which this enmity is dissolved, even by the free 
offer on the one hand, and the believing acceptance on 
the other, of the gospel salvation ; while Christ, through 
whose blood the sinner, who by nature stands afar off, 
is brought near to the heavenly Lawgiver whom he has 
offended, was scarcely ever spoken of, or spoken of in 
such a way as stripped him of all the importance of his 
character and his offices, — even at this time I certainly 
did press the reformations of honor, and truth, and 
integrity among my people ; but I never once heard 
of any such reformations having been effected amongst 
them. If there was anything at all brought, about in 
this way, it was more than ever I got any account of. 
I am not sensible that all the vehemence with which I 
urged the virtues and the proprieties of social life had 
the weight of a feather on the moral habits of my 
parishioners. And it was not till I got impressed by the 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 257 

utter alienation of the heart in all its desires and affec- 
tions from God ; it was not till reconciliation to Him 
became the distinct and the prominent object of my 
ministerial exertions ; it was not till I took the Scrip- 
tural way of laying the method of reconciliation before 
them; it was not till the free offer of forgiveness through 
the blood of Christ was urged upon their acceptance, 
and the Holy Spirit given through the channel of 
Christ's mediatorship.to all who ask him, was set before 
them as the unceasing object of their dependence and 
their prayers ; it was not, in one word, till the contem- 
plations of my people were turned to these great and 
essential elements in the business of a soul providing for 
its interests with God and the concerns of its eternity, 
that I ever heard of any of those subordinate refor- 
mations which I aforetime made the earnest and the 
zealous, but, I am afraid, at the same time the ultimate, 
object of my earlier ministrations. Ye servants, whose 
scrupulous fidelity has now attracted the notice [of,] 
and drawn forth in my hearing a delightful testimony 
from, your masters, — what mischief you would have 
done had your zeal for doctrines and sacraments been 
accompanied by the sloth and the remissness, and what, 
in the prevailing tone of moral relaxation, is counted the 
allowable purloining of your earlier days ! But a sense 
of your heavenly Master's eye has brought another 
influence to bear upon you ; and while you are thus 
striving to adorn the doctrine of God your Savior in all 
things, you may, poor as you are, reclaim the great ones 
of the land to the acknowledgment of the faith. You 
have at least taught me that to preach Christ is the only 
effective way of preaching morality in all its branches ; 
17 



258 SELECTIONS. 

and out of your humble cottages have I gathered a 
lesson, which I pray God I may be enabled to carry with 
all its simplicity into a wider theater, and to bring with 
all the power of its subduing efficacy upon the vices of a 
more crowded population. 



BUILDING FOR ETERNITY. 

N. P. WILLIS. 

From a poem delivered at the departure of the senior class of Yale 
College, in 1827. 

■X- -X- * -X- -X- 

We shall go forth together. There will come 
Alike the day of trial unto all, 
And the rude world will buffet us alike. 
Temptation hath a music for all ears ; 
And mad ambition trumpeteth to all ; 
And the ungovernable thought within 
Will be in every bosom eloquent : 
But when the silence and the calm come on, 
And the high seal of character is set, 
We shall not all be similar. The flow 
Of lifetime is a graduated scale ; 
And deeper than the vanities of power, 
Or the vain pomp of glory, there is set 
A standard measuring our worth for Heaven. 
The pathway to the grave may be the same, 
And the proud man shall tread it, and the low — 
With his bowed head — shall bear him company. 
And there will be no precedence of power, 
In waking at the coming trump of God ! 
But in the temper of the invisible mind r 
The godlike and undying intellect, 
There are distinctions that will live in heaven 
When time is a forgotten circumstance ! 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 259 

The elevated brow of kings will lose 

The impress of regalia, and the slave 

Will wear his immortality as free, 

Beside the crystal waters; but the depth 

Of glory in the attributes of God, 

Will measure the capacities of mind : 

And as the angels differ, will the ken 

Of gifted spirits glorify him more. 

'T is life's probation task. The soul of man 

Createth its own destiny of power ; 

And. as the trial is intenser here, 

His being hath a nobler strength in heaven. 

* * * * ■* 

So lives the soul of man. It is the thirst 
Of his immortal nature ; and he rends 
The rock for secret fountains, and pursues 
The path of the illimitable wind 
For mysteries — and this is human pride ! 
There is a softer winding path through life, 
And man may walk it with unruffled soul, 
And drink its wayside waters till his heart 
Is stilled with its o'erflowing happiness. 
The chart by which to traverse it is writ 
In the broad book of nature. : T is to have 
Attentive and believing faculties ; 
To go abroad rejoicing in the joy 
Of beautiful and well-created things ; 
To love the voice of waters and the sheen 
Of silver fountains leaping to the sea ; 
To thrill with the rich melody of birds. 
Living their life of music ; to be glad 
In the gay sunshine, reverent in the storm ; 
To see a beauty in the stirring leaf, 
And find calm thoughts beneath the whispering tree ; 
To see, and hear, and breathe the evidence 
Of God's deep wisdom in the natural world ! 
It is to linger on • • the magic face 



260 SELECTIONS. 

Of human beauty," and from light and shade 
Alike to draw a lesson : 't is to know 
The cadences of voices that are tuned 
By majesty and purity of thought ; 
• To gaze on woman's beauty, as a star 
Whose purity and distance make it fair ; 
And from the spell of music to awake, 
And feel that it has purified the heart ! 
It is to love all virtue, like the light, 
Dear to the soul as sunshine to the eye ; 
And when the senses and the mind are filled 
Like wells from these involuntary springs, 
It is to calm the trembling depths with prayer, 
That it may be but a reflected Heaven. 

Thus would I, at this parting hour, be true 
To teachings which to me have priceless been. 
Thus would I — like a just-departing child, 
Who lingers on the threshold of his home — 
Strive, with vague murmurings and lingering looks, 
To store up what were sweetest to recall. 
And O, be this remembered ! — that when life 
Shall have become a weariness, and hope 
Thirsts for serener waters, we may go 
Forth to God's wild-wood temples, and while all 
Its choirs breathe music, and its leafy aisles 
Are solemn with the beauty of the world, 
Kneel at its unwrought altar ; and the cup 
That holds the " living waters " will be near. 



SANITY OF TRUE GENIUS. 

CHARLES LAMB. 



So far from the position holding true, that great wit 
(or genius, in our modern way of speaking) has a neces- 
sary alliance with insanity, the greatest wits, on the 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 261 

contrary, will ever be found to be the sanest writers. 
It is impossible for the mind to conceive of a mad 
Shakespeare. The greatness of wit, by which the 
poetic talent is here chiefly to be understood, manifests 
itself in the admirable balance of all the faculties. 
Madness is the disproportionate straining or excess of 
any one of them. "So strong a wit," says Cowley, 
speaking of a poetical friend, — 

•• did Nature to him frame, 

As all things but his judgment overcame ; 

His judgment like the heavenly moon did show, 

Tempering that mighty sea below.'* 

The ground of the mistake is, that men, finding in 
the raptures of the higher poetry a condition of exal- 
tation, to which they have no parallel in their own 
experience, — besides the spurious resemblance of it in 
dreams and fevers, — impute a state of dreaminess and 
fever to the poet. But the true poet dreams being 
awake. He is not possessed by his subject, but has 
dominion over it. In the groves of Eden he walks 
familiar as in his native paths. He ascends the empy- 
rean heaven, and is not intoxicated. He treads the 
burning marl without dismay ; he wins his flight without 
self-loss through realms of chaos "and old night." Or 
if, abandoning himself to that severer chaos of a 
"human mind untuned," he is content awhile to be 
mad With Lear, or to hate mankind (a sort of madness) 
with Timon, neither is that madness, nor this misan- 
thropy, so unchecked, but that, — never letting the 
reins of reason wholly go, while most he seems to do 
so,— he has his better genius still whispering at his ear, 



262 SELECTIONS. 

with the good servant Kent suggesting saner counsels, 
or with the honest steward Flavius recommending kind- 
lier resolutions. Where he seems most to recede from 
humanity, he will be found the truest to it. From 
beyond the scope of nature if he summon possible exist- 
ences, he subjugates them to the law of her consistency. 
He is beautifully loyal to that sovereign directress, even 
when he appears most to betray and desert her. His 
ideal tribes submit to policy ; his very monsters are 
tamed to his hand, even as that wild sea-brood, shep- 
herded by Proteus. He tames, and he clothes them 
with attributes of flesh and blood till they wonder at 
themselves, like Indian Islanders forced to submit to 
European vesture. Caliban, the Witches, are as true 
to the laws of their own nature (ours with a difference), 
as Othello, Hamlet, and Macbeth. Herein the great 
and the little wits are differenced, — that if the latter 
wander ever so little from nature or actual existence, 
they lose themselves — and their readers. Their phan- 
toms are lawless ; their visions, nightmares. They do 
not create, which implies shaping and consistency. 
Their imaginations are not active — for to be active is 
to call something into act and form — but passive, as 
men in sick dreams. For the supernatural — or some- 
thing superadded to what we know of nature — they 
give you the plainly non-natural. And if this were all, 
and that these mental hallucinations were discoverable 
only in the treatment of subjects out of nature, or tran- 
scending it, the judgment might with some plea be par- 
doned if it ran riot, and a little wantonized : but even 
in the describing of real and every-day life — that which 
is before their eyes — one of these lesser wits shall more 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 263 

deviate from nature — show more of that inconse- 
quence, which has a natural alliance with frenzy, — than 
a great genius in his " maddest fits," as Withers some- 
where calls them. 



SUPERIORITY OF THE MORAL OVER THE INTEL- 
LECTUAL NATURE OF MAN. 



GEORGE HENRY LEWES. 



Strength of will is the quality most needing cultiva- 
tion in mankind. Will is the central force which gives 
strength and greatness to character. We overestimate 
the value of talent, because it dazzles us ; and we are 
apt to underrate the importance of will, because its 
works are less shining. Talent gracefully adorns life ; 
but it is will which carries us victoriously through the 
struggle. Intellect is the torch which lights us on our 
way ; will is the strong arm which rough-hews the path 
for us. The clever weak man sees all the obstacles on 
his path ; the very torch he carries, being brighter than 
that of most men, enables him, perhaps, to see that the 
path before him may be directest, — the best ; yet it also 
enables him to see the crooked turnings by which he 
may, as he fancies, reach the goal without encountering 
difficulties. If, indeed, intellect were a sun, instead of 
a torch — if it irradiated every corner and crevice — 
then would man see how, in spite of every obstacle, the 
direct path is the only safe one, and he would cut the 
way through by manful labor. But constituted as we 
are, it is the clever weak men who stumble most — the 
strong men who are most virtuous and happy. In this 



264 SELECTIONS. 

world, there cannot be virtue without strong will ; the 
weak " know the right, and yet the wrong pursue." 

No one, I suppose, will accuse me of deifying obsti- 
nacy, or even mere brute will ; nor of depreciating 
intellect. But we have had too many dithyrambs in 
honor of mere intelligence ; and the older I grow, the 
clearer I see that intellect is not the highest faculty in 
man, although the most brilliant. Knowledge, after all, 
is not the greatest thing in life ; it is not the " be-all 
and the end-all here." Life is not science. The light 
of intellect is truly a precious light ; but its aim and end 
is simply to shine. The moral nature of man is more 
sacred in my eyes than his intellectual nature. I know 
they cannot be divorced — that without intelligence we 
should be brutes — but it is the tendency of our gaping, 
wondering dispositions to give pre-eminence to those 
faculties which most astonish us. Strength of character 
seldom, if ever, astonishes ; goodness, lovingness, and 
quiet self-sacrifice are worth all the talents in the world. 



A PERFECT EDUCATION. 

JOHN W. FRANCIS. 
From "The Relation of Literature to a Republican Government." 

In casting about for the means of opposing the sen- 
sual, selfish, and mercenary tendencies of our nature 
(the real Hydra of free institutions), and of so elevating 
man as to render it not chimerical to expect from him 
the safe ordering of his steps, no mere human agency 
can be compared with the resources laid up in the great 
Treasure-house of Literature. There, is collected the 



EDUCATION, MORALS, AND RELIGION. 265 

accumulated experience of ages, — the volumes of the 
historian, like lamps, to guide our feet; — there stand 
the heroic patterns of courage, magnanimity, and self- 
denying virtue; — there are embodied the gentler attri- 
butes, which soften and purify while they charm the 
heart ; — there lie the charts of those who have explored 
the deeps and shallows of the soul ; — there, the dear- 
bought testimony, which reveals to us the ends of the 
earth, and shows that the girdle of the waters is nothing 
but their Maker's will ; — there stands the poet's harp, 
of mighty compass and many strings ; — there hang the 
deep-toned instruments through which patriot eloquence 
has poured its inspiring echoes over oppressed nations ; 
— there, in the sanctity of their own self-emitted light, 
repose the heavenly oracles. This glorious fane, vast, 
and full of wonders, has been reared and stored by the 
labors of lettered men ; and could it be destroyed, man- 
kind might relapse to the state of savages. 

A restless, discontented, aspiring, vital principle, 
placed in a material form, whose clamorous appetites, 
bitter pains, and final languishing and decay, are per- 
petually at war with the peace and innocence of the 
spiritual occupant — and have, moreover, power to jeop- 
ard its lasting welfare — is the mysterious combination 
of human nature. To employ the never-resting faculty ; 
to turn off its desires from the dangerous illusions of the 
senses to the ennobling enjoyments of the mind ; to 
place before the high-reaching principle, objects that 
will excite and reward its efforts, and, at the same 
time, not unfit a thing immortal for the probabilities 
that await it when time shall be no more ; — these are 
the legitimate aims of a perfect education. 



CHAPTER THREE 



Studies in Nature. 

THE SKY. 

JOHN RUSKIN. 

It is a strange thing how little, in general, people 
know about the sky. It is the part of creation in which 
Nature has done more for the sake of pleasing man, 
more for the sole and evident purpose of talking to him 
and teaching him, than in any other of her works ; and 
it is just the part in which we least attend to her. 
There are not many of her other works in which some 
more material or essential purpose than the mere 
pleasing of man is not answered by every part of their 
organization ; but every essential purpose of the sky 
might, so far as we know, be answered if, once in three 
days or thereabouts, a great, ugly, black rain-cloud 
were brought up over the blue, and everything well 
watered, and so all left blue again till next time, with, 
perhaps, a film of morning and evening mist for dew. 
And, instead of this, there is not a moment of any day 
of our lives when Nature is not producing, scene after 
scene, picture after picture, glory after glory, and work- 
ing still upon such exquisite and constant principles of 
the most perfect beauty, that it is quite certain that it 
is all done for us, and intended for our perpetual 
pleasure. And every man, wherever placed, however 
far from other sources of interest or of beauty, has this 
[266] 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 267 

doing for him constantly. The noblest scenes of the 
earth can be seen and known but by few ; it is not 
intended that man should live always in the midst of 
them : he injures them by his presence ; he ceases to 
feel them if he be always with them. But the sky 
is for all ; bright as it is, it is not l ' too bright nor 
good for human nature's daily food ; " it is fitted, in 
all its functions, for the perpetual comfort and exalt- 
ing of the heart ; for the soothing it, and purifying it 
from its dross and dust. Sometimes gentle, sometimes 
capricious, sometimes awful ; never the same for two 
moments together ; almost human in its passions, 
almost spiritual in its tenderness, almost divine in its 
infinity, its appeal to what is immortal in us is as 
distinct as its ministry of chastisement or of blessing 
to what is mortal is essential. And yet we never attend 
to it ; we never make it a subject of thought, but as it 
has to do with our animal sensations. We look upon 
all by which it speaks to us more clearly than to brutes, 
— upon all which bears witness to the intention of the 
Supreme that we are to receive more from the covering 
vault than the light and the dew which we share with 
the weed and the worm, — only as a succession of mean- 
ingless and monotonous accidents, too common and too 
vain to be worthy of a moment of watchfulness or a 
glance of admiration. If, in our moments of utter idle- 
ness and insipidity, we turn to the sky as a last resource, 
which of its phenomena do we speak of ? One says 
it has been wet, and another it has been windy, and 
another it has been warm. Who, among the whole 
chattering crowd, can tell me of the forms and preci- 
pices of the chain of tall white mountains that gilded 



268 SELECTIONS. 

the horizon at noon yesterday ? Who saw the narrow 
sunbeam that came out of the south, and smote upon 
their summits, until they melted and moldered away in 
a dust of blue rain ? Who saw the dance of the dead 
clouds, when the sunlight left them last night, and the 
west wind blew them before it, like withered leaves ? 
All has passed unregretted or unseen ; or, if the apathy 
be ever shaken off, even for an instant, it is only by 
what is gross or what is extraordinary : and yet it is not 
in the broad and fierce manifestations of the elemental 
energies, not in the clash of the hail, nor the drift of the 
whirlwind, that the highest characters of the sublime are 
developed. God is not in the earthquake nor in the fire, 
but in the still small voice. They are but the blunt 
and the low faculties of our nature, which can only be 
addressed through lampblack and lightning. It is in 
quiet and subdued passages of unobtrusive majesty ; the 
deep, and the calm, and the perpetual ; that which 
must be sought ere it is seen, and loved ere it is under- 
stood ; things which the angels work out for us daily, 
and yet vary eternally, which are never wanting, and 
never repeated ; which are to be found always, yet each 
found but once. It is through these that the lesson of 
devotion is chiefly taught and the blessing of beauty 
given. 

LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS. 

MATTHEW ARNOLD. 

In this lone open glade I lie, 

Screened by deep boughs on either hand, 

And, at its head, to stay the eye, 

Those dark-crowned, red-boled pine-trees stand. 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 269 

Birds here make song ; each bird has his 

Across the girdling city's hum : 
How green under the boughs it is ! 

How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come ! 

Sometimes a child will cross the glade 

To take his nurse his broken toy ; 
Sometimes a thrush flit overhead, 

Deep in her unknown day's employ. 

Here at my feet what wonders pass ! 

What endless, active life is here ! 
What blowing daisies, fragrant grass ! 

An air-stirred forest, fresh and clear. 

Scarce fresher is the mountain sod 

Where the tired angler lies, stretched out, 

And, eased of basket and of rod, 

Counts his day's spoil, — his spotted trout. 

In the huge world which roars hard by, 

Be others happy — if they can ; 
But, in my helpless cradle, I 

Was breathed on by the rural Pan. 

I, on men's impious uproar hurled, 

Think often, as I hear them rave, 
That peace has left the upper world, 

And now keeps only in the grave. 

Yet here is peace forever new ! 

When I, who watch them, am away, 
Still all things in this glade go through 

The changes of their quiet day. 

Then to their happy rest they pass, 

The flowers close, the birds are fed, 
The night comes down upon the grass, 

The child sleeps warmly in his bed. 



270 SELECTIONS. 

Calm soul of all things ! make it mine 
To feel, amid the city's jar, 

That there abides a peace of thine, 
Man did not make, and cannot mar. 

The will to neither strive nor cry, 
The power to feel with others, give ! 

Calm, calm me more, nor let me die 
Before I have begun to live. 



THE BRIGHTNESS OF NATURE CONTRASTED WITH 
HUMAN SORROWS. 

GEORGE ELIOT. 

Bright February days have a stronger charm of hope 
about them than any other days in the year. One likes 
to pause in the mild rays of the sun, and look over the 
gates at the patient plow-horses turning at the end of 
the furrow, and think that the beautiful year is all before 
one. The birds seem to feel just the same : their notes 
are as clear as the clear air. There are no leaves on 
the trees and hedgerows, but how green all the grassy 
fields are ! and the dark purplish brown of the plowed 
earth and of the bare branches is beautiful too. What 
a glad world this looks like, as one drives or rides along 
the valleys and over the hills ! I have often thought so 
when in foreign countries, where the fields and woods 
have looked to me like our English Loamshire — the 
rich land tilled with just as much care, the woods rolling 
down the gentle slopes to the green meadows. I have 
come on something by the roadside which has reminded 
me that I am not in Loamshire : an image of a great 
agony — the agony of the cross. It has stood perhaps 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 271 

by the clustering apple blossoms, or on the broad sun- 
shine by the corn-field, or at a turning by the wood 
where a clear brook was gurgling below ; and surely, if 
there came a traveler to this world who knew nothing of 
the story of man's life upon it, this image of agony 
would seem to him strangely out of place in the midst of 
this joyous nature. He would not know that hidden 
behind the apple blossoms, or among the golden corn, 
or under the shrouding boughs of the wood, there might 
be a human heart beating heavily with anguish; perhaps 
a young, blooming girl, not knowing where to turn for 
refuge from swift-advancing shame ; understanding no 
more of this life of ours than a foolish lost lamb wander- 
ing farther and farther in the nightfall on the lonely 
heath ; yet tasting the bitterest of life's bitterness. 

Such things are sometimes hidden among the sunny 
fields and behind the blossoming orchards ; and the 
sound of the gurgling brook, if you come close to one 
spot behind a small bush, would be mingled for your 
ear with a despairing human sob. No wonder man's 
religion has much sorrow in it : no wonder he needs a 
suffering God. 

AN ENGLISH LANDSCAPE. 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
From "Aurora Leigh." 

The thrushes sang, 
And shook my pulses and the elm's new leaves — 
And then I turned, and held my ringer up, 
And bade him mark, that howsoe'er the world 
Went ill, as he related, certainly 
The thrushes still sang in it. At which word 
His brow would soften — and he bore with me 
In melancholy patience, not unkind, 



272 SELECTIONS. 

While, breaking into voluble ecstasy, 
I flattered all the beauteous country round, 
As poets use — the skies, the clouds, the fields, 
The happy violets, hiding from the roads 
The primroses run down to, carrying gold ; 
The tangled hedgerows, where the cows push out 
Their tolerant horns and patient churning mouths 
'Twixt dripping ash-boughs — hedgerows all alive 
With birds, and gnats, and large white butterflies, 
Which look as if the May-flower had caught life 
And palpitated forth upon the wind ; 
Hills, vales, woods, netted in a silver mist ; 
Farms, granges, doubled up among the hills, 
And cattle grazing in the watered vales, 
And cottage chimneys smoking from the woods, 
And cottage gardens smelling everywhere, 
Confused with smell of orchards. " See," I said, 
." And see, is God not with us on the earth ? 
And shall we put him down by aught we do ? 
Who says there 's nothing for the poor and vile, 
Save poverty and wickedness ? Behold ! " 
And ankle-deep in English grass I leaped, 
And clapped my hands, and called all very fair. 



THE EARLY BLUE=BIRD. 

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 

Blue-bird ! on yon leafless tree, 
Dost thou carol thus to me : 

(i Spring is coming ! Spring is here ! " 
Say'st thou so, my birdie dear ? 
What is that, in misty shroud, 
Stealing from the darkened cloud ? 
Lo ! the snow-flakes' gathering mound 
Settles o'er the whitened ground, 
Yet thou singest, blithe and clear : 

" Spring is coming ! Spring is here ! " 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 273 

Strik'st thou not too bold a strain ? 
Winds are piping o'er the plain ; 
Clouds are sweeping o'er the sky 
With a black and threatening eye ; 
Urchins, by the frozen rill, 
Wrap their mantles closer still ; 
Yon poor man, with doublet old, 
Doth he shiver at the cold ? 
Hath he not a nose of blue ? 
Tell me, birdling, tell me true. 

Spring 's a maid of mirth and glee, 
Rosy wreaths and revelry : 
Hast thou wooed some winged love 
To a nest in verdant grove ? 
Sung to her of greenwood bower, 
Sunny skies that never lower ? 
Lured her with thy promise fair 
Of a lot that knows no care ? 
Prythee, bird, in coat of blue, 
Though a lover, tell her true. 

Ask her if, when storms are long, 
She can sing a cheerful song ? 
When the rude winds rock the tree, 
If she '11 closer cling to thee ? 
Then the blasts that sweep the sky, 
Unappalled shall pass thee by ; 
Though thy curtained chamber show 
Siftings of untimely snow, 
Warm and glad thy heart shall be ; 
Love shall make it spring for thee. 



18 



274 SELECTIONS. 

THE HUMMING=BIRD. 

JOHN JAMES AUDUBON. 

Where is the person, who, on observing this glittering 
fragment of the rainbow, would not pause, admire, and 
instantly turn his mind with reverence toward the 
Almighty Creator, the wonders of whose hand we at 
every step discover, and of whose sublime conceptions 
we everywhere observe the manifestations in his admi- 
rable system of creation ? There breathes not such a 
person, so kindly have we all been blessed with that 
intuitive and noble feeling — admiration ! 

No sooner has the returning sun again introduced 
the vernal season, and caused millions of plants to 
expand their leaves and blossoms to his genial beams, 
than the little humming-bird is seen advancing on fairy 
wings, carefully visiting every opening flower-cup, and, 
like a curious florist, removing from each the injurious 
insects that otherwise would erelong cause their beau- 
teous petals to droop and decay. Poised in the air, it 
is observed peeping cautiously, and with sparkling eye, 
into their innermost recesses ; whilst the ethereal motions 
of its pinions, so rapid and so light, appear to fan and 
cool the flower, without injuring its fragile texture, and 
produce a delightful murmuring sound, well adapted for 
lulling the insects to repose. 



The prairies, the fields, the orchards and gardens, 
nay, the deepest shades of the forests, are all visited in 
their turn, and everywhere the little bird meets with 
pleasure and with food. Its gorgeous throat in beauty 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 275 

and brilliancy baffles all competition. Now it glows 
with a fiery hue, and again it is changed to the deepest 
velvety black. The upper parts of its delicate body are 
of resplendent changing green ; and it throws itself 
through the air with a swiftness and vivacity hardly 
conceivable. It moves from one flower to another like 
a gleam of sunlight, upward, downward, to the right, 
and to the left. In this manner, it searches the extreme 
northern portions of our country, following, with great 
precaution, the advances of the season, and retreating 
with equal care at the approach of autumn. 



THE CLOUD. 

PERCY B. SHELLEY. 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 

From the seas and the streams ; 
I bear light shade for the leaves, when laid 

In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet buds every one, 
When rocked to rest on their Mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under ; 
And then, again, I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh, as I pass, in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below ; 

And their great pines groan aghast ; 
And all the night 't is my pillow white, 

While I sleep in the arms of the Blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers 

Lightning my pilot sits ; 



276 SELECTIONS. 

In a cavern under, is fettered the Thunder ; 

It struggles and howls at fits. 
Over earth and ocean with gentle motion 

This pilot is guiding me, 
Lured by the love of the Genii that move 

In the depths of the purple Sea ; 
Over the rills and the crags and the hills, 

Over the lakes and the plains, 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, 

The Spirit he loves remains ; 
And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 

And his burning plumes outspread, 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 

When the morning star shines dead : 
As on the jag of a mountain-crag 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And, when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, 

Its ardors of rest and of love, 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above, 
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, 

Whom mortals call the Moon, 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 

By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear, 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, 

The Stars peep behind her and peer. 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 






STUDIES IN NATURE. 277 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, — 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone, 

And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the Stars reel and swim, 

When the Whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 

Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof ; — 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I march, 

With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, 

Is the million-colored bow ; 
The Sphere-fire above, its soft colors wove, 

While the moist Earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of Earth and Water, 

And the nursling of the Sky : 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when, with never a stain, 

The pavilion of heaven is bare, 
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams 

Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, — 

And out of the caverns of rain, 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 

I arise, and unbuild it again. 



278 SELECTIONS. 

APOSTROPHE TO WINTER. 

WILLIAM COWPER. 

O Winter ! ruler of the inverted year, 
Thy scattered hair with sleet like ashes filled, 
Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks 
Fringed with a beard made white with other snows 
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, 
A leafless branch thy scepter, and thy throne 
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, 
But urged by storms along its slippery way, — 
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemest, 
And dreaded as thou art. Thou holdest the sun 
A prisoner in the yet undawning east, 
Shortening his journey between morn and noon, 
And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, 
Down to the rosy west ; but kindly still 
Compensating his loss with added hours 
Of social converse and instructive ease, 
And gathering, at short notice, in one group 
The family dispersed, and fixing thought, 
Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. 



A WINTER HORNING. 

COWPER. 

'Tis morning ; and the sun, with ruddy orb 
Ascending, fires the horizon : while the clouds, 
That crowd away before the driving wind, 
More ardent as the disk emerges more, 
Resemble most some city in a blaze, 
Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray 
Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, 
And tingeing all with his own rosy hue, 
From every herb and every spiry blade 
Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 279 

Mine, spindling into longitude immense, 
In spite of gravity, and sage remark 
That I myself am but a fleeting shade, 
Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance 
I view the muscular proportioned limb 
Transformed to a lean shank. The shapeless pair, 
As they designed to mock me, at my side 
Take step for step ; and as I near approach 
The cottage, walk along the plastered wall, 
Preposterous sight ! the legs without the man. 
The verdure of the plain lies buried deep 
Beneath the dazzling deluge ; and the bents, 
And coarser grass upspearing o'er the rest, 
Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine 
Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad, 
And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb. 
The cattle mourn in corners where the fence 
Screens them, and seem half -petrified to sleep 
In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait 
Their wonted fodder, not like hungering man, 
Fretful if unsupplied, but silent, meek, 
And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay. 
He from the stack carves out the accustomed load, 
Deep plunging, and again deep plunging oft, 
His broad keen knife into the solid mass ; 
Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, 
With such undeviating and even force 
He severs it away : no needless care 
Lest storms should overset the leaning pile 
Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight. 
Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcerned 
The cheerful haunts of man, to wield the ax 
And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear, 
From morn to eve his solitary task. 
Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed ears, 
And tail cropped short, half lurcher, and half cur, 
His dog attends him. Close behind his heel 
Now creeps he slow ; and now with many a frisk 



280 SELECTIONS. 

Wide scampering, snatches up the drifted snow 
With ivory teeth, or plows it with his snout ; 
Then shakes his powdered coat, and barks for joy. 
Heedless of all his pranks, the sturdy churl 
Moves right toward the mark ; nor stops for aught. 
But now and then with pressure of his thumb 
To adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube 
That fumes beneath his nose : the trailing cloud 
Streams far behind him, scenting all the air. 
Now from the roost, or from the neighboring pale, 
Where, diligent to catch the first faint gleam 
Of smiling day, they gossiped side by side, 
Come trooping at the housewife's well-known call 
The feathered tribes domestic. Half on wing, 
And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood, 
Conscious, and fearful of too deep a plunge. 
The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves 
To seize the fair occasion. Well they eye 
The scattered grain, and thievishly resolved 
To escape the impending famine, often scared 
As oft return, a pert, voracious kind. 
Clean riddance quickly made, one only care 
Remains to each, the search of sunny nook, 
Or shed impervious to the blast. Resigned 
To sad necessity, the cock foregoes 
His wonted strut, and wading at their head 
With well-considered steps, seems to resent 
His altered gait and stateliness retrenched. 



THE ICE PALACE. 



Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ ! 
Thy most magnificent and mighty freak, 
The wonder of the north ! No forest fell 
When thou wouldst build ; no quarry sent its stores 
To enrich thy walls ; but thou didst hew the floods, 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 281 

And make thy marble of the glassy wave. 

In such a palace Aristseus found 

Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale 

Of his lost bees to her maternal ear : 

In such a palace poetry might place 

The armory of winter ; where his troops, 

The gloomy clouds, find weapons, — arrowy sleet, 

Skin-piercing volley, blossom-bruising hail, 

And snow that often blinds the traveler's course, 

And wraps him in an unexpected tomb. 

Silently as a dream the fabric rose ; 

No sound of hammer or of saw was there. 

Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted parts 

Were soon conjoined, nor other cement asked 

Than water interfused to make them one. 

Lamps gracefully disposed, and of all hues, 

Illumined every side ; a watery light 

Gleamed through the clear transparency, that seemed 

Another moon new risen, or meteor fallen 

From heaven to earth, of lambent flame serene. 

So stood the brittle prodigy ; though smooth 

And slippery the materials, yet frost-bound 

Firm as a rock. Nor wanted aught within, 

That royal residence might well befit, 

For grandeur or for use. Long wavy wreaths 

Of flowers, that feared no enemy but warmth, 

Blushed on the panels. Mirror needed none 

Where all was vitreous ; but in order due, 

Convivial table, and commodious seat 

(What seemed at least commodious seat) were there, — 

Sofa, and couch, and high-built throne august. 

The same lubricity was found in all, 

And all was moist to the warm touch ; — a scene 

Of evanescent glory, once a stream, 

And soon to slide into a stream again. 

Alas ! 't was but a mortifying stroke 

Of undesigned severity, that glanced 

(Made by a monarch) on her own estate, — 



282 SELECTIONS. 

On human grandeur and the courts of kings. 
'T was transient in its nature as in show 
'Twas durable ; as worthless as it seemed 
Intrinsically precious ; to the foot 
Treacherous and false : it smiled, and it was cold. 

Great princes have great playthings. Some have played 
At hewing mountains into men, and some 
At building human wonders mountain high. 
Some have amused the dull sad years of life — 
Life spent in indolence, and therefore sad — 
With schemes of monumental fame ; and sought 
By pyramids and mausolean pomp, 
Short-lived themselves, to immortalize their bones. 
Some seek diversion in the tented field, 
And make the sorrows of mankind their sport. 
But war 's a game, which, were their subjects wise, 
Kings would not play at. Nations would do well 
To extort their truncheons from the puny hands 
Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds 
Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil, 
Because men suffer it, their toy — the world. 



DESCENT OF THE OHIO. 

JOHN JAMES AUDUBON. 

It was in the month of October. The autumnal tints 
already decorated the shores of that queen of rivers, the 
Ohio. Every tree was hung with long and flowing fes- 
toons of different species of vines, many loaded with 
clustered fruits of varied brilliancy, their rich bronzed 
carmine mingling beautifully with the yellow foliage, 
which now predominated over the yet green leaves, 
reflecting more lively tints from the clear stream than 
ever landscape-painter portrayed or poet imagined. 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 283 

The days were yet warm. The sun had assumed the 
rich and glowing hue which at that season produces the 
singular phenomenon called there the Indian summer. 
The moon had rather passed the meridian of her gran- 
deur. We glided down the river, meeting no other rip- 
ple of the water than that formed by the propulsion of 
our boat. Leisurely we moved along, gazing all day on 
the grandeur and beauty of the wild scenery around us. 

Now and then a large cat-fish rose to the surface of 
the water in pursuit of a shoal of fry, which, starting 
simultaneously from the liquid element, like so many 
silvery arrows, produced a shower of light, while the 
pursuer with open jaws seized the stragglers, and with a 
splash of his tail disappeared from our view. Other fishes 
we heard uttering beneath our bark a rumbling noise, 
the strange sounds of which we discovered to proceed 
from the white perch ; for, on casting our net from the 
bow, we caught several of that species, when the noise 
ceased for a time. 

Nature, in her varied arrangements, seems to have 
felt a partiality toward this portion of our country. As 
the traveler ascends or descends the Ohio, he cannot 
help remarking that alternately, nearly the whole length 
of the river, the margin on one side is bounded by lofty 
hills and a rolling surface ; while on the other, extensive 
plains of the richest alluvial land are seen as far as the 
eye can command the view. Islands of varied size and 
form rise here and there from the bosom of the water, 
and the winding course of the stream frequently brings 
you to places where the idea of being on a river of great 
length changes to that of floating on a lake of moderate 
extent. Some of these islands are of considerable size 



284 SELECTIONS. 

and value ; while others, small and insignificant, seem as 
if intended for contrast, and as serving to enhance the 
general interest of the scenery. These little islands are 
frequently overflowed during great freshets or floods, 
and receive at their heads prodigious heaps of drifted 
timber. We foresaw with great concern the alteration 
that cultivation would soon produce along those delight- 
ful banks. 

As night came, sinking in darkness the broader 
portions of the river, our minds became affected by 
strong emotions, and wandered far beyond the present 
moments. The tinkling of bells told us that the cattle 
which bore them were gently roving from valley to 
valley in search of food, or returning to their distant 
homes. The hooting of the great owl, and the muffled 
noise of its wings as it sailed smoothly over the stream, 
were matters of interest to us ; so was the sound of the 
boatman's horn, as it came winding more and more softly 
from afar. When daylight returned, many songsters 
burst forth with echoing notes, more and more mellow 
to the listening ear. Here and there the lonely cabin of 
a squatter struck the eye, giving note of commencing 
civilization. The crossing of the stream by a deer fore- 
told how soon the hills would be covered with snow. 

Many sluggish flat-boats we overtook and passed, 
some laden with produce from the different head-waters 
of the small rivers that pour their tributary streams into 
the Ohio ; others, of less dimensions, crowded with 
emigrants from distant parts in search of a new home. 
Purer pleasures I never felt ; nor have you, reader, I 
ween, unless indeed you have felt the like, and in such 
company. 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 285 



When I think of the times, and call back to my 
mind the grandeur and beauty of those almost uninhab- 
ited shores ; when I picture to myself the dense and 
lofty summits of the forest, that everywhere spread 
along the hills, and overhung the margins of the stream, 
unmolested by the ax of the settler ; when I know how 
dearly purchased the safe navigation of that river has 
been by the blood of many worthy Virginians ; when I 
see that no longer any aborigines are to be found there, 
and that the vast herds of elks, deer, and buffaloes 
which once pastured on these hills and in these valleys, 
making for themselves great roads to the several salt- 
springs, have ceased to exist ; when I reflect that all this 
grand portion of our Union, instead of being in a state 
of nature, is now more or less covered with villages, 
farms, and towns, where the din of hammers and 
machinery is constantly heard ; that the woods are fast 
disappearing under the ax by day, and the fire by night ; 
that hundreds of steam-boats are gliding to and fro over 
the whole length of the majestic river, forcing commerce 
to take root and prosper at every spot ; when I see the 
surplus population of Europe coming to assist in the 
destruction of the forest, and transplanting civilization 
into its darkest recesses ; — when I remember that these 
extraordinary changes have all taken place in the short 
period of twenty years, I pause, wonder, and — although 
I know all to be fact — can scarcely believe its reality. 



286 SELECTIONS. 

PRECIPICES OF THE ALPS, 

RUSKIN. 

Dark in color, robed with everlasting mourning, 
forever tottering like a great fortress shaken by war, 
fearful as much in their weakness as in their strength, 
and yet gathered after every fall into darker frowns and 
unhumiliating threatening ; forever incapable of comfort 
or healing from herb or flower, nourishing no root in 
their crevices, touched by no hue of life on buttress or 
ledge, but to the utmost desolate ; knowing no shaking 
of leaves in the wind, nor of grass beside the stream — 
no other motion but their own mortal shivering, the 
dreadful crumbling of atom from atom in their cor- 
rupting stones ; knowing no sound of living voice or 
living tread, cheered neither by the kid's bleat nor the 
marmot's cry ; haunted only by uninterrupted echoes 
from afar off, wandering hither and thither among their 
walls, unable to escape, and by the hiss of angry torrents, 
and sometimes the shriek of a bird that flits near the. 
face of them, and sweeps frightened back from under 
their shadow into the gulf of air ; and sometimes, when 
the echo has fainted, and the wind has carried the 
sound of the torrent away, and the bird has vanished, 
and the moldering stones are still for a little time, — a 
brown moth, opening and shutting its wings upon a grain 
of dust, may be the only thing that moves or feels in all 
the waste of weary precipice darkening five thousand 
feet of the blue depth of heaven. 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 287 

NATURE AND INNOCENCE, 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

Sweet Highland girl, a very shower 

Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 

Twice seven consenting years have shed 

Their utmost bounty on thy head : 

And these gray rocks ; that household lawn ; 

Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; 

This fall of water that doth make 

A murmur near the silent lake ; 

This little bay ; a quiet road - 

That holds in shelter thy abode, — 

In truth, together do ye seem 

Like something fashioned in a dream, — 

Such forms as from their covert peep 

When earthly cares are laid asleep ; 

But, O fair creature ! in the light 

Of common day, so heavenly bright, 

I bless thee, vision as thou art, — 

I bless thee with a human heart. 

God shield thee to thy latest years ! 

Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers ; 

And yet my eyes are rilled with tears. 

With earnest feeling I shall pray 
For thee when I am far away ; 
For never saw I mien, nor face, 
In which more plainly I could trace 
Benignity and home-bred sense 
Ripening in perfect innocence. 
Here scattered, like a random seed, 
Remote from men, thou dost not need 
The embarrassed look of shy distress, 
And maidenly shamefacedness ; 
Thou wearest upon thy forehead clear 
The freedom of a mountaineer ; 
A face with gladness overspread ! 



288 SELECTIONS. 

Soft smiles, by human kindness' bred ! 
And seemliness complete, that sways 
Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
With no restraint, but such as springs 
From quick and eager visitings 
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
Of thy few words of English speech, — 
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 
That gives thy gestures grace and life ! 
So have I, not unmoved in mind, 
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind 
Thus beating up against the wind. 



AN EVENING EXCURSION ON THE LAKE. 

WORDSWORTH. 

No sooner had he ceased 
Than, looking forth, the gentle lady said, 
64 Behold the shades of afternoon have fallen 
Upon this flowery slope ; and see — beyond — 
The silvery lake is streaked with placid blue, 
As if preparing for the peace of evening. 
How temptingly the landscape shines ! The air 
Breathes invitation ; easy is the walk 
To the lake's margin, where a boat lies moored 
Under a sheltering tree." Upon this hint 
We rose together ; all were pleased ; but most 
The beauteous girl, whose cheek was flushed with joy. 
Light as a sunbeam glides along the hills 
She vanished, eager to impart the scheme 
To her loved brother and his shy compeer. 
Now was there bustle in the vicar's house, 
And earnest preparation. Forth we went, 
And down the vale along the streamlet's edge 
Pursued our way — a broken company — 
Mute or conversing, single or in pairs. 
Thus having reached a bridge, that overarched 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 289 

The hasty rivulet where it lay becalmed 

In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw 

A twofold image, — on a grassy bank 

A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood 

Another and the same ! Most beautiful, 

On the green turf, with his imperial front 

Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns superb, 

The breathing creature stood ; as beautiful, 

Beneath him, showed his shadowy counterpart. 

Each had his glowing mountains, each his sky, 

And each seemed center of his own fair world, — 

Antipodes unconscious of each other, 

Yet, in partition, with their several spheres, 

Blended in perfect stillness, to our sight ! 



" Ah ! what a pity were it to disperse 
Or to disturb so fair a spectacle, — 
And yet a breath can do it ! " 

These few words 
The lady whispered, while we stood and gazed, 
Gathered together, all in still delight, 
Not without awe. Thence passing on, she said 
In like low voice to my particular ear, 
I love to hear that eloquent old man 
Pour forth his meditations, and descant 
On human life from infancy to age. 
How pure his spirit ! in what vivid hues 
His mind gives back the various forms of things, 
Caught in their fairest, happiest attitude ! 
While he is speaking, I have power to see 
Even as he sees ; but when his voice hath ceased, 
Then, with a sigh, sometimes I feel, as now, 
That combinations so serene and bright 
Cannot be lasting in a world like ours ; 
While highest beauty, beautiful as it is, 
Like that reflected in yon quiet pool, 
Seems but a fleeting sunbeam's gift, whose peace 
The sufferance only of a breath of air ! " 

l 9 



290 SELECTIONS. 

More had she said — but sportive shouts were heard, 
Sent from the jocund hearts of those two boys, 
Who, bearing each a basket on his arm, 
Down the green field came tripping after us. 
With caution we embarked ; and now the pair 
For prouder service were addressed ; but each, 
Wishful to leave an opening for my choice, 
Dropped the light oar his eager hand had seized. 
Thanks given for that becoming courtesy, 
Their place I took, and for a grateful office 
Pregnant with recollections of the time 
When, on thy bosom, spacious Windermere ! 
A youth, I practised this delightful art, 
Tossed on the waves alone, or 'mid a crew 
Of joyous comrades. Soon as the reedy marge 
Was cleared, I dipped, with arms accordant, oars 
Free from obstruction ; and the boat advanced 
Through crystal water, smoothly as a hawk, 
That, disentangled from the shady boughs 
Of some thick wood — her place of covert — cleaves 
With correspondent wings the abyss of air. 
" Observe," the vicar said, " yon rocky isle 
With birch-trees fringed ; my hand shall guide the helm, 
While thitherward we shape our course ; or while 
We seek that other, on the western shore, 
Where the bare columns of those lofty firs, 
Supporting gracefully a massive dome 
Of somber foliage, seem to imitate 
A Grecian temple rising from the deep." 



" Turn where we may," said I, " we cannot err 
In this delicious region." Cultured slopes, 
Wild tracts of forest-ground, and scattered groves, 
And mountains bare, or clothed with ancient woods, 
Surrounded us ; and, as we held our way 
Along the level of the glassy flood, 
They ceased not to surround us ; change of place, 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 291 

From kindred features diversely combined, 

Producing change of beauty ever new. 

Ah ! that such beauty, varying in the light 

Of living nature, cannot be portrayed 

By words, nor by the pencil's silent skill ; 

But is the property of him alone 

Who hath beheld it, noted it with care, 

And in his mind recorded it with love ! 

Suffice it, therefore, if the rural muse 

Vouchsafe sweet influence, while her poet speaks 

Of trivial occupations well devised, 

And unsought pleasures springing up by chance ; 

As if some friendly genius had ordained 

That, as the day thus far had been enriched 

By acquisition of sincere delight, 

The same should be continued to its close. 



One spirit animating old and young, 
A gypsy-fire we kindled on the shore 
Of the fair isle with birch-trees fringed ; and there, 
Merrily seated in a ring, partook 
A choice repast, served by our young companions 
With rival earnestness and kindred glee. 
Launched from our hands, the smooth stone skimmed 

the lake ; 
With shouts we raised the echoes ; stiller sounds 
The lovely girl supplied, — a simple song, 
Whose low tones reached not to the distant rocks 
To be repeated thence, but gently sank 
Into our hearts, and charmed the peaceful flood. 
Rapaciously we gathered flowery spoils 
From land and water, — lilies of each hue, 
Golden and white, that float upon the waves, 
And court the wind ; and leaves of that shy plant 
(Her flowers were shed), the lily of the vale, 
That loves the ground, and from the sun withholds 
Her pensive beauty ; from the breeze, her sweets. 



292 SELECTIONS. 

Such product, and such pastime, did the place 
And season yield ; but, as we re-embarked, 
Leaving, in quest of other scenes, the shore 
Of that wild spot, the Solitary said 
In a low voice, yet careless who might hear, 
"The fire that burned so brightly to our wish, — 
Where is it now ? — Deserted on the beach — 
Dying, or dead ! Nor shall the fanning breeze 
Revive its ashes. What care we for this, 
Whose ends are gained ? Behold an emblem here 
Of one day's pleasure, and all mortal joys ! 
And, in this unpremeditated slight 
Of that which is no longer needed, see 
The common course of human gratitude ! " 

This plaintive note disturbed not the repose 
Of the still evening. Right across the lake 
Our pinnace moves ; then, coasting creek and bay, 
Glades we behold, and into thickets peep, 
Where couch the spotted deer ; or raise our eyes 
To shaggy steeps, on which the careless goat 
Browsed by the side of dashing waterfalls ; 
And thus the bark, meandering with the shore, 
Pursued her voyage, till a natural pier 
Of jutting rock invited us to land. 

Alert to follow as the pastor led, 
We climbed a green hill's side ; and, as we climbed, 
The valley, opening out her bosom, gave 
Fair prospect, intercepted less and less, 
O'er the flat meadows and indented coast 
Of the smooth lake, in compass seen. Far off, 
And yet conspicuous, stood the old church-tower, 
In majesty presiding over fields 
And habitations seemingly preserved 
From all intrusion of the restless world 
By rocks impassable and mountains huge. 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 293 

Soft heath this elevated spot supplied 
And choice of moss-clad stones, whereon we couched 
Or sat reclined ; admiring quietly 
The general aspect of the scene ; but each 
Not seldom over-anxious to make known 
His own discoveries ; or to favorite points 
Directing notice, merely from a wish 
To impart a joy, imperfect while unshared. 
That rapturous moment never shall I forget, 
When these particular interests were effaced 
From every mind ! Already had the sun, 
Sinking with less than ordinary state, 
Attained his western' bound ; but rays of light — 
Now suddenly diverging from the orb, 
Retired behind the mountain tops, or veiled 
By the dense air — shot upward to the crown 
Of the blue firmament — aloft, and wide ; 
And multitudes of little floating clouds, 
Through their ethereal texture pierced — ere we, 
Who saw, of change were conscious — had become 
Vivid as fire ; — clouds separately poised, — 
Innumerable multitude of forms, 
Scattered through half the circle of the sky, 
And giving back, and shedding each on each, 
With prodigal communion, the bright hues 
Which from the unapparent fount of glory 
They had imbibed, and ceased not to receive. 
That which the heavens displayed, the liquid deep 
Repeated ; but with unity sublime ! 

While from the grassy mountain's open side 
We gazed, in silence hushed, with eyes intent 
On the refulgent spectacle, diffused 
Through earth, sky, water, and all visible space, 
The priest in holy transport thus exclaimed : 
; Eternal Spirit ! universal God ! 
Power inaccessible to human thought, 
Save by degrees and steps which thou hast deigned 



294: SELECTIONS. 

To furnish ; for this effluence of thyself, 

To the infirmity of mortal sense 

Vouchsafed, — this local transitory type 

Of thy paternal splendors, and the pomp 

Of those who fill thy courts in highest heaven, 

The radiant cherubim, — accept the thanks 

Which we, thy humble creatures, here convened, 

Presume to offer ; — we, who, from the breast 

Of the frail earth, permitted to behold 

The faint reflections only of thy face, 

Are yet exalted, and in soul adore ! 

Such as they are who in thy presence stand 

Unsullied, incorruptible, and drink 

Imperishable majesty streamed forth 

From thy empyreal throne, the elect of earth 

Shall be, divested at the appointed hour 

Of all dishonor, cleansed from mortal stain. 

Accomplish, then, their number ; and conclude 

Time's weary course ! Or, if by thy decree 

The consummation that will come by stealth 

Be yet far distant, let thy word prevail, — 

O ! let thy word prevail, to take away 

The sting of human nature. Spread the law, 

As it is written in thy Holy Book, 

Throughout all lands ; let every nation hear 

The high behest, and every heart obey, 

Both for the love of purity, and hope 

Which it affords, to such as do thy will 

And persevere in good, that they shall rise 

To have a nearer view of thee, in heaven. 

Father of good ! this prayer in bounty grant, — 

In mercy grant it, to thy wretched sons ! 

Then, nor till then, shall persecution cease, 

And cruel wars expire. The way is marked, 

The guide appointed, and the ransom paid." 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 295 

This vesper-service closed, without delay, 
From that exalted station to the plain 
Descending, we pursued our homeward course, 
In mute composure, o'er the shadowy lake, 
Under a faded sky. No trace remained 
Of those celestial splendors ; gray the vault — 
Pure, cloudless ether ; and the star of eve 
Was wanting ; but inferior lights appeared 
Faintly, — too faint almost for sight ; and some 
Above the darkened hills stood boldly forth 
In twinkling luster, ere the boat attained 
Her mooring-place ; where, to the sheltering tree 
Our youthful voyagers bound fast her prow, 
With prompt yet careful hands. 



SCENE IN AN INDIAN FOREST. 



CHARLES KINGSLEY. 



On the further side of a little lawn, the stream 
leaped through a chasm beneath overarching vines, 
sprinkling eternal freshness upon all around, and then 
sank foaming into a clear rock-basin, a bath for Dian's 
self. On its further side, the crag rose some twenty 
feet in height, bank upon bank of feathered ferns and 
cushioned moss, over the rich green beds of which 
drooped a thousand orchids, scarlet, white, and orange, 
and made the still pool gorgeous with the reflection of 
their gorgeousness. At its more quiet outfall, it was 
half-hidden in huge, fantastic leaves and tall, flowering- 
stems ; but near the waterfall the grassy bank sloped 
down toward the stream, and there, on palm-leaves 
strewed upon the turf, beneath the shadow of the crags, 
lay the two men whom Amyas sought, and whom, now 



296 SELECTIONS. 

he had found them, he had hardly heart to wake from 
their delicious dream. 

For what a nest it was which they had found ! The 
air was heavy with the scent of flowers, and quivering 
with the murmur of the stream, the humming of the 
colibris and insects, the cheerful song of birds, the 
gentle cooing of a hundred doves ; while now and then, 
from far away, the musical wail of the sloth, or the deep 
toll of the bell-bird, came softly to the ear. What was 
not there which eye or ear could need ? And what 
which palate could need either ? For on the rock 
above, some strange tree, leaning forward, dropped 
every now and then a luscious apple upon the grass 
below, and huge wild plantains bent beneath their load 
of fruit. 



PICTURE OF AN ISLAND. 



RICHARD HENRY DANA. 



The island lies nine leagues away. 

Along its solitary shore, 
Of craggy rock and sandy bay, 
No sound but ocean's roar, 
Save where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home, 
Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam. 



But when the light winds lie at rest, 

And on the glassy, heaving sea, 
The black duck, with her glossy breast, 
Sits swinging silently, — 
How beautiful ! no ripples break the reach, 
And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach. 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 29' 

And inland rests the green, warm dell ; 

The brook comes tinkling down its side ; 
From out the trees the Sabbath bell 
Rings cheerful, far and wide, 
Mingling its sounds with bleatings of the flocks, 
That feed about the vale among the rocks. 



MOUNTAINS. 

WILLIAM HOWITT. 
From' "The Book of the Seasons." 

There is a charm connected with mountains, so pow- 
erful that the merest mention of them, the merest sketch 
of their magnificent features, kindles the imagination, 
and carries the spirit at once into the bosom of their 
enchanted regions. How the mind is filled with their 
vast solitude ! how the inward eye is fixed on their silent, 
their sublime, their everlasting peaks ! How our hearts 
bound to the music of their solitary cries, to the tinkle 
of their gushing rills, to the sound of their cataracts ! 
How inspiriting are the odors that breathe from the 
upland turf, from the rock-hung flower, from the hoary 
and solemn pine ! how beautiful are those lights and 
shadows thrown abroad, and that fine, transparent haze 
which is diffused over the valleys and lower slopes, as 
over a vast, inimitable picture ! 

At this season of the year [autumn] the ascents of 
our mountains are most practicable. The heat of sum- 
mer has dried up the moisture with which winter rains 
saturate the spongy turf of the hollows ; and the atmos- 
phere, clear and settled, admits of the most extensive 
prospects. Whoever has not ascended our mountains 



298 SELECTIONS. 

knows little of the beauties of this beautiful island. 
Whoever has not climbed their long and heathy ascents, 
and seen the trembling mountain-flowers, the glowing 
moss, the richly-tinted lichens at his feet ; and scented 
the fresh aroma of the uncultivated sod, and of the spicy 
shrubs ; and heard the bleat of the flock across their soli- 
tary expanses, and the wild cry of the mountain-plover, 
the raven, or the eagle ; and seen the rich and russet 
hues of distant slopes and eminences, the livid gashes of 
ravines and precipices, the white glittering line of falling 
waters, and the cloud tumultuously whirling round the 
lofty summit ; and then stood panting on that summit, 
and beheld the clouds alternately gather and break over 
a thousand giant peaks and ridges of every varied hue, 
but all silent as images of eternity ; and cast his gaze 
over lakes and forests, and smoking towns, and wide 
lands to the very ocean, in all their gleaming and repo- 
sing beauty — knows nothing of the treasures of pictorial 
wealth which his own country possesses. 

But when we let loose the imagination from even 
these splendid scenes, and give it free charter to range 
through the far more glorious ridges of continental moun- 
tains, — through Alps, Apennines, or Andes, — how is it 
possessed and absorbed by all the awful magnificence of 
their scenery and character ! The skyward and inac- 
cessible pinnacles, the — 

" Palaces where Nature thrones 
Sublimity in icy halls ! " 

the dark Alpine forests, the savage rocks and precipices, 
the fearful and unfathomable chasms filled with the sound 
of ever-precipitating waters ; the cloud, the silence, the 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 299 

avalanche, the cavernous gloom, the terrible visitations 
of heaven's concentrated lightning, darkness, and thun- 
der ; or the sweeter features of living, rushing streams, 
spicy odors of flower and shrub, fresh, spirit-elating 
breezes sounding through the dark pine-grove ; the ever- 
varying lights and shadows, and aerial hues ; the wide 
prospects, and, above all, the simple inhabitants ! 

We delight to think of the people of mountainous 
regions ; we please our imagination with their pictur- 
esque and quiet abodes ; with their peaceful, secluded 
lives, striking and unvarying costumes, and primitive 
manners. We involuntarily give to the mountaineer 
heroic and elevated qualities. He lives amongst noble 
objects, and must imbibe some of their nobility ; he 
lives amongst the elements of poetry, and must be 
poetical ; he lives where his fellow beings are far, far 
separated from their kind, and surrounded by the stern- 
ness and the perils of savage nature ; his social affections 
must therefore be proportionably concentrated, his home 
ties lively and strong; but, more than all, he lives within 
the barriers, the strongholds, the very last refuge which 
Nature herself has reared to preserve alive liberty in the 
earth, to preserve to man his highest hopes, his noblest 
emotions, his dearest treasures, his faith, his freedom, 
his hearth, and his home. How glorious do those 
mountain-ridges appear when we look upon them as 
the unconquerable abodes of free hearts ; as the stern, 
heaven-built walls from which the few, the feeble, the 
persecuted, the despised, the helpless child, the delicate 
woman, have from age to age, in their last perils, in all 
their weaknesses and emergencies, when power and 
cruelty were ready to swallow them up, looked down 



300 SELECTIONS. 

and beheld the million waves of despotism break at 
their feet ; have seen the rage of murderous armies, 
and tyrants, the blasting spirit of ambition, fanaticism, 
and crushing domination recoil from their bases in 
despair. Thanks be to God for mountains ! is often the 
exclamation of my heart as I trace the history of the 
world. From age to age they have been the last friends 
of man. In a thousand extremities they have saved 
him. What great hearts have throbbed in their defiles 
from the days of Leonidas to those of Andreas Hofer ! 
What lofty souls, what tender hearts, what poor and 
persecuted creatures have they sheltered in their stony 
bosoms from the weapons and tortures of their fellow 

men ! 

" Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones 
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold ! " 

was the burning exclamation of Milton's agonized and 
indignant spirit, as he beheld those sacred bulwarks of 
freedom for once violated by the disturbing demons of 
the earth ; and the sound of his fiery and lamenting 
appeal to Heaven will be echoed in every generous soul 
to the end of time. 

Thanks be to God for mountains ! The variety which 
they impart to the glorious bosom of our planet were no 
small advantage ; the beauty which they spread out to 
our vision in their woods and waters, their crags and 
slopes, their clouds and atmospheric hues, were a splen- 
did gift ; the sublimity which they pour into our deepest 
souls from their majestic aspects ; the poetry which 
breathes from their streams, and dells, and airy heights, 
from the sweet abodes, the garb and manners of their 
inhabitants, the songs and legends which have awoke 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 301 

[awaked] in them, were a proud heritage to imaginative 
minds ; — but what are all these when the thought comes, 
that without mountains the spirit of man must have 
bowed to the brutal and the base, and probably have 
sunk to the monotonous level of the unvaried plain. 

When I turn my eyes upon the map of the world, 
and behold how wonderfully the countries where our 
faith was nurtured, where our liberties were generated, 
where our philosophy and literature, the fountains of 
our intellectual grace and beauty, sprang up, were as 
distinctly walled out by God's hand with mountain ram- 
parts from the eruptions and interruptions of barbarism, 
as if at the especial prayer of the early fathers of man's 
destinies, — I am lost in an exulting admiration. Look 
at the bold barriers of Palestine ! see how the infant 
liberties of Greece were sheltered from the vast tribes 
of the uncivilized North by the heights of Haemus and 
Rhodope ! behold how the Alps describe their magnifi- 
cent crescent, inclining their opposite extremities to the 
Adriatic and Tyrrhene Seas, locking up Italy from the 
Gallic and Teutonic hordes till the power and spirit of 
Rome had reached their maturity, and she had opened 
the wide forest of Europe to the light, spread far her 
laws and language, and planted the seeds of many mighty 
nations ! 

Thanks to God for mountains ! Their colossal firm- 
ness seems almost to break the current of time itself ; 
the geologist in them searches for traces of the earlier 
world ; and it is there, too, that man, resisting the revo- 
lutions of lower regions, retains through innumerable 
years his habits and his rights. While a multitude of 
changes has remolded the people of Europe, while 



302 SELECTIONS. 

languages, and laws, and dynasties, and creeds have 
passed over it, like shadows over the landscape, the 
children of the Kelt and the Goth, who fled to the 
mountains a thousand years ago, are found there now, 
and show us in face and figure, in language and garb, 
what their fathers were, — show us a fine contrast with 
the modern tribes dwelling below and around them ; and 
show us, moreover, how adverse is the spirit of the 
mountain to mutability, and that there the fiery heart 
of freedom is found forever. 



THE SNOW=SHOWER. 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

Stand here by my side, and turn, I pray, 
On the lake below, thy gentle eyes ; 

The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, 
And dark and silent the water lies ; 

And out of that frozen mist the snow 

In wavering flakes begins to flow ; 
Flake after flake 

They sink in the dark and silent lake. 

See how in a living swarm they come 

From the chambers beyond that misty veil 

Some hover awhile in air, and some 

Rush prone from the sky like summer hail. 

All, dropping swiftly or settling slow, 

Meet, and are still, in the depths below ; 
Flake after flake 

Dissolved in the dark and silent lake. 

Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud, 

Come floating downward in airy play, 
Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 303 

That whiten by night the milky way ; 
There broader and burlier masses fall ; 
The sullen water buries them all — 

Flake after flake — 
All drowned in the dark and silent lake. 

And some, as on tender wings they glide 
From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray, 

Are joined in their fall, and, side by side, 
Come clinging along their unsteady way ; 

As friend with friend, or husband with wife, 

Makes hand in hand the passage of life ; 
Each mated flake 

Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake. 

Lo ! while we are gazing, in swifter haste 
Stream down the snows, till the air is white, 

As, myriads by myriads madly chased, 

They fling themselves from their shadowy height. 

The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, 

What speed they make, with their grave so nigh ; 
Flake after flake, 

To lie in the dark and silent lake ! 

I see in thy gentle eyes a tear ; 

They turn to me in sorrowful thought ; 
Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear, 

Who were for a time, and now are not ; 
Like these fair children of cloud and frost, 
That glisten a moment and then are lost, 

Flake after flake — 
All lost in the dark and silent lake. 

Yet look again, for the clouds divide ; 

A gleam of blue on the water lies ; 
And far away, on the mountainside, 

A sunbeam falls from the opening skies ; 



304 SELECTIONS. 

But the hurrying host that flew between 
The cloud and the water, no more is seen 

Flake after flake, 
At rest in the dark and silent lake. 



AUTUMN: TWO WAYS OF LOOKING AT THE 
DYING YEAR. 

ROBERT SOUTHEY. 

Nay, William, nay, — not so ! the changeful year, 
In all its due successions, to my sight 
Presents but varied beauties, — transient all, 
All in their season good. These fading leaves, 
That with their rich variety of hues 
Make yonder forest in the slanting sun 
So beautiful, in you awake the thought 
Of winter, — cold, drear winter, — when the trees, 
Each like a fleshless skeleton shall stretch 
Its bare, brown boughs ; when not a flower shall spread 
Its colors to the day, and not a bird 
Carol its joyance ; but all nature wear 
One sullen aspect, bleak and desolate, 
To eye, ear, feeling, comfortless alike. 
To me their many- colored beauties speak 
Of times of merriment and festival, — 
The year's best holiday : I call to mind 
The schoolboy-days, when in the falling leaves 
I saw with eager hope the pleasant sign 
Of coming Christmas ; when at morn I took 
My wooden calendar, and, counting up 
Once more its often-told account, smoothed off 
Each day with more delight the daily notch. 
To you the beauties of the autumnal year 
Make mournful emblems ; and you think of man 
Doomed to the grave's long winter, spirit-broken, 
Bending beneath the burden of his years, 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 305 

Sense-dulled and fretful, "full of aches and pains," 

Yet clinging still to life. To me they show 

The calm decay of nature when the mind 

Retains its strength, and in the languid eye 

Religion's holy hopes kindle a joy 

That makes old age look lovely. All to you 

Is dark and cheerless : you in this fair world 

See some destroying principle abroad, — 

Air, earth, and water full of living things, 

Each on the other preying ; and the ways 

Of man a strange, perplexing labyrinth, 

Where crimes and miseries, each producing each, 

Render life loathsome, and destroy the hope 

That should in death bring comfort. O, my friend, 

That thy faith were as mine ! that thou couldst see 

Death still producing life, and evil still 

Working its own destruction ! couldst behold 

The strifes and troubles of this troubled world 

With the strong eye that sees the promised day 

Dawn through this night of tempest ! All things then 

Would minister to joy ; then should thine heart 

Be healed and harmonized, and thou wouldst feel 

God always, everywhere, and all in all. 



THE GARDENS OF THE VATICAN. 

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 

Sweet fountains, flashing with a dreamy fall, 
And mosses green, and tremulous veils of fern, 
And banks of blowing cyclamen, and stars 
Blue as the skies, of myrtle blossoming ; 
The twilight shade of ilex overhead, 
O'erbubbling with sweet song of nightingale, 
With walks of strange, weird stillness, leading on 
'Mid sculptured fragments half to green moss gone, 
Or breaking forth amid the violet leaves 
With some white gleam of an old world gone by, 
20 



306 SELECTIONS. 

Ah ! strange, sweet quiet ! wilderness of calm, 
Gardens of dreamy rest, I long to lay 
Beneath your shade the last long sigh, and say : 
Here is my home, my Lord, thy home and mine ; 
And I, having searched the world with many a tear, 
At last have found thee and will stray no more. 
But vainly here I seek the Gardener 
That Mary saw. These lovely walls beyond, 
That airy, sky-like dome, that lofty fane, 
Is as a palace whence the king is gone, 
And taken all the sweetness with himself. 
Turn again, Jesus, and possess thine own ! 
Come to thy temple once more as of old ! 
Drive forth the money-changers ; let it be 
A house of prayer for nations. Even so, 
Amen ! Amen ! 



MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE. 

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
An Extract. 

Blessed was the sunshine when it came again, at the 
close of another stormy day, beaming from the edge of 
the western horizon, while the massive firmament of 
cloud threw down all the gloom it could, but served only 
to kindle the golden light into a more brilliant glow 
by the strongly-contrasted shadows. Heaven smiled at 
the earth long unseen from beneath its heavy eyelid. 
To-morrow for the hilltops and the woodpaths ! 

Or it might be that Ellery Channing came up the 
avenue to join me in a fishing-excursion on the river. 
Strange and happy times were those when we cast 
aside all irksome forms and strait-laced habitudes, and 
delivered ourselves up to the free air, to live like the 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 307 

Indians or any less conventional race during one bright 
semicircle of the sun. Rowing our boat against the 
current between wide meadows, we turned aside, into 
the Assabeth. A more lonely stream than this for a 
mile above its junction with the Concord has never 
flowed on earth — nowhere, indeed, except to lave the 
interior regions' of a poet's imagination. It is sheltered 
from the breeze by woods and a hillside ; so that else- 
where there might be a hurricane and here scarcely a 
ripple across the shaded water. The current lingers 
along so gently that the mere force of the boatman's 
will seems sufficient to propel his craft against it. It 
comes flowing softly through the midmost privacy and 
deepest heart of a wood which whispers it to be quiet, 
while the stream whispers back again from its sedgy 
borders, as if river and wood were hushing each other 
to sleep. Yes, the river sleeps along its course and 
dreams of the sky and of the clustering foliage, amid 
which fall showers of broken sunlight, imparting specks 
of vivid cheerfulness, in contrast with the quiet depth of 
the prevailing tint. Of all this scene the slumbering 
river had a dream-picture in its bosom. Which, after 
all, was the most real — the picture or the original, the 
objects palpable to our grosser senses or their apotheosis 
rn the stream beneath ? Surely the disembodied images 
stand in closer relation to the soul. But both the 
original and the reflection had here an ideal charm, and, 
had it been a thought more wild, I could have fancied 
that this river had strayed forth out of the rich scenery 
of my companion's inner world ; only the vegetation 
along its banks should then have had an Oriental 
character. 



308 SELECTIONS. 

Gentle and unobtrusive as the river is, the tranquil 
woods seem hardly satisfied to allow its passage. The 
trees are rooted on the very verge of the water, and dip 
their pendent branches into it. At one spot there is a 
lofty bank on the slope of which grow some hemlocks, 
declining across the stream with outstretched arms, as 
if resolute to take the plunge. In" other places the 
banks are almost on a level with the water ; so that the 
quiet congregations of trees set their feet in the flood, 
and are fringed with foliage down to the surface. Car- 
dinal-flowers kindle their spiral flames, and illuminate 
the dark nooks among the shrubbery. The pond-lily 
grows abundantly along the margin, — that delicious 
flower which, as Thoreau tells me, opens its virgin 
bosom to the first sunlight, and perfects its being 
through the magic of that genial kiss. He has beheld 
beds of them unfolding in due succession as the sunrise 
stole gradually from flower to flower, — a sight not to be 
hoped for unless when a poet adjusts his inward eye to 
a proper focus with the outward organ. Grape-vines 
here and there twine themselves around shrub and tree, 
and hang their clusters over the water within reach of 
the boatman's hand. Oftentimes they unite two trees 
of alien race in an inextricable twine, marrying the hem- 
lock and the maple against their will, and enriching them 
with a purple offspring of which neither is the parent. 
One of these ambitious parasites has climbed into the 
upper branches of a tall white pine, and is still ascend- 
ing from bough to bough, unsatisfied till it shall crown 
the tree's airy summit with a wreath of its broad foliage 
and a cluster of its grapes. 

The winding course of the stream continually shut 
out the scene behind us, and revealed as calm and lovely 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 309 

a one before. We glided from depth to depth, and 
breathed new seclusion at every turn. The shy king- 
fisher flew from the withered branch close at hand to 
another at a distance, uttering a shrill cry of anger or 
alarm. Ducks that had been floating there since the 
preceding eve were startled at our approach, and 
skimmed along the glassy river, breaking its dark sur- 
face with a bright streak. The pickerel leaped from 
among the lily-pads. The turtle, sunning itself upon 
a rock or at the root of a tree, slid suddenly into 
the water with a plunge. The painted Indian who 
paddled his canoe along the Assabeth three hundred 
years ago could hardly have seen a wilder gentleness 
displayed upon its banks and reflected in its bosom 
than we did. 

Nor could the same Indian have prepared his noon- 
tide meal with more simplicity. We drew up our skiff 
at some point where the overarching shade formed a 
natural bower, and there kindled a fire with the pine- 
cones and decayed branches that lay strewn plentifully 
around. Soon the smoke ascended among the trees, 
impregnated with a savory incense — not heavy, dull, 
and surfeiting, like the steam of cookery within-doors, — 
but sprightly and piquant. The smell of our feast was 
akin to the woodland odors with which it mingled. 
There was no sacrilege committed by our intrusion 
there ; the sacred solitude was hospitable, and granted 
us free leave to cook and eat in the recess that was at 
once our kitchen and banqueting-hall. It is strange 
what humble offices may be performed in a beautiful 
scene without destroying its poetry. Our fire, red- 
gleaming among the trees, and we beside it, busied 
with culinary rites, and spreading out our meal on a 



310 SELECTIONS. 

moss-grown log, — all seemed in unison with the river 
gliding by and the foliage rustling over us. And, what 
was strangest, neither did our mirth seem to disturb the 
propriety of the solemn woods, although the hobgoblins 
of the old wilderness and the will-o'-the-wisps that 
glimmered in the marshy places might have come troop- 
ing to share our table-talk and have added their shrill 
laughter to our merriment. It was the very spot 
in which to utter the extremest nonsense or the pro- 
foundest wisdom, or that ethereal product of the mind 
which partakes of both and may become one or the 
other in correspondence with the faith and insight of 
the auditor. 

So, amid sunshine and shadow, rustling leaves and 
sighing waters, up gushed our talk like the babble of a 
fountain. The evanescent spray was Ellery's, and his, 
too, the lumps of golden thought that lay glimmering in 
the fountain's bed, and brightened both our faces by the 
reflection. Could he have drawn out that virgin gold 
and stamped it with the mint-mark that alone gives 
currency, the world might have had the profit, and he 
the fame. My mind was the richer merely by the 
knowledge that it was there. But the chief profit of 
those wild days, to him and me, lay, not in any definite 
idea, not in any angular or rounded truth which we dug 
out of the shapeless mass of problematical stuff, but in 
the freedom which we thereby won from all custom and 
conventionalism and fettering influences of man on man. 
We were so free to-day that it was impossible to be 
slaves again to-morrow. When we crossed the thresh- 
old of the house or trod the thronged pavements of a 
city, still the leaves of the trees that overhang the 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 311 

Assabeth were whispering to us, "Be free! Be free! " 
Therefore along that shady river-bank there are spots 
marked with a heap of ashes and half-consumed brands 
only less sacred in my remembrance than the hearth of 
a household fire. 



TO A MOUSE. 

ROBERT BURNS. 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, 

what a panic 's in thy breastie ! - 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 

1 wad be laith to rin and chase thee, 

Wi' murd'ring pattle ! 

I 'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken nature's social union, 
And justifies that ill opinion, 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 

And fellow mortal ! 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 
A daimen icker in a thrave 

'S a sma request : 
I '11 get a blessin' wi' the laive, 

And never miss 't ! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! 
And naething now to big a new ane 

O' foggage green, 
And bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell and keen ! 



312 SELECTIONS. 

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, 
And weary winter comin' fast, 
And cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till, crash ! the cruel coulter passed 

Out through thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble, 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou 's turned out for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

And cranreuch cauld ! 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best-laid schemes o' mice and men, 

Gang aft a-gley, 
And lea'e us nought but grief and pain, 

For promised joy. 

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me ! 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, och ! I backward cast my ee, 

On prospects drear ! 
And forward, though I canna see, 

I guess and fear. 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME. 



Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ; 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 3 13 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field ! 
The bitter little that of life remains : 
No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains 

To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, 
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom pressed. 

Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I '11 miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. 



RURAL SCENES: REFLECTIONS. 



Thence with what pleasure have we just discerned 
The distant plow slow moving, and beside 
His laboring team, that swerved not from the track, 
The sturdy swain diminished to a boy. 
Here, Ouse, slow winding through a level plain 
Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, 
Conducts the eye along his sinuous course 
Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank, 
Stand, never overlooked, our favorite elms, 
That screen the herdsman's solitary hut. ; 
While far beyond, and overthwart the stream 
That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, 
The sloping land recedes into 'the clouds ; 
Displaying, on its varied side, the grace 
Of hedge-row beauties numberless ; square tower ; 
Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells 
Just undulates upon the listening ear ; 
Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote. 



314 SELECTIONS. 

Scenes must be beautiful which daily viewed, 
Please daily, and whose novelty survives 
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years, — 
Praise justly due to those that I describe. 

Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds 
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore 
The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds, 
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood 
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike 
The dash of ocean on his winding shore, 
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind ; 
Unnumbered branches waving in the blast, 
And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once. 
Nor less composure waits upon the roar 
Of distant floods, or on the softer voice 
Of neighboring fountain, or. of rills that slip 
Through the cleft rock, and chiming as they fall 
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length 
In matted grass, that, with a livelier green, 
Betrays the secret of their silent course. 
Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, 
But animated nature sweeter still, 
To soothe and satisfy the human ear. 
Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one 
The livelong night : nor these alone, whose notes 
Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain, 
But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime 
In still repeated circles, screaming loud ; 
The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl 
That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. 
Sounds inharmonious in themselves, and harsh, 
Yet heard in scenes where peace forever reigns, 
And only there, please highly for their sake. 

Descending now (but cautious lest too fast) 
A sudden steep, upon a rustic bridge, 
We pass a gulf, in which the willows dip 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 315 

Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink. 
Hence, ankle-deep in moss and flowery thyme, 
We mount again, and feel at every step 
Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft. 
Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil. 
He, not unlike the great ones of mankind. 
Disfigures earth, and plotting in the dark. 
Toils much to earn a monumental pile, 
That may record the mischiefs he has done. 



The summit gained, behold the proud alcove 
That crowns it ! yet not all its pride secures 
The grand retreat from injuries impressed 
By rural carvers, who with knives deface 
The panels, leaving an obscure, rude name, 
In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss. 
So strong the zeal to immortalize himself 
Beats in the breast of man, that even a few, 
Few transient years, won from the abyss abhorred 
Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize, 
And even to a clown. Now roves the eye, 
And posted on this speculative height 
Exults in its command. The sheepfold here 
Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe. 
At first, progressive as a stream, they seek 
The middle field : but scattered by degrees, 
Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land. 
There, from the sunburnt hay-field, homeward creeps 
The loaded wain, while, lightened of its charge, 
The wain that meets it passes swiftly by, 
The boorish driver leaning o*er his team, 
Vociferous, and impatient of delay. 
Nor less attractive is the woodland scene, 
Diversified with trees of every growth, 
Alike, yet various. Here the gray, smooth trunks 
Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine, 
Within the twilight of their distant shades ; 



316 SELECTIONS. 

There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood 

Seems sunk, and shortened to its topmost boughs. 

No tree in all the grove but has its charms, 

Though each its hue peculiar ; paler some, 

And of a wannish gray ; the willow such, 

And poplar, that with silver lines his leaf, 

And ash far stretching his umbrageous arm ; 

Of deeper green the elm ; and deeper still, 

Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak. 

Some glossy-leaved, and shining in the sun, — 

The maple, and the beech of oily nuts 

Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve 

Diffusing odors : nor unnoted pass 

The sycamore, capricious in attire, 

Now green, now tawny, and, ere autumn yet 

Hath changed the woods, in scarlet honors bright. 

O'er these, but far beyond (a spacious map 

Of hill and valley interposed between), 

The Ouse, dividing the well-watered land, 

Now glitters in the sun, and now retires, 

As bashful, yet impatient to be seen. 



Hence the declivity is sharp and short, 
And such the reascent ; between them weeps 
A little naiad her impoverished urn 
All summer long, which winter fills again. 
The folded gates would bar my progress now. 
But that the lord of this enclosed demesne, 
Communicative of the good he owns, 
Admits me to a share : the guiltless eye 
Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys. 
Refreshing change ! where now the blazing sun ? 
By short transition we have lost his glare, 
And stepped at once into a cooler clime. 
Ye fallen avenues ! once more I mourn 
Your fate unmerited, — once more rejoice 
That yet a remnant of your race survives. 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 317 

How airy and how light the graceful arch, 
Yet awful as the consecrated roof 
Re-echoing pious anthems ! while beneath, 
The checkered earth seems restless as a flood 
Brushed by the wind. So sportive is the light 
Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance, 
Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick, 
And darkening, and enlightening, as the leaves 
Play wanton, every moment, every spot. 

And now, with nerves new-braced and spirits cheered, 
We tread the wilderness, whose well-rolled walks. 
With curvature of slow and easy sweep — 
Deception innocent — gives ample space 
To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next ; 
Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms 
We may discern the thresher at his task. 
Thump after thump resounds the constant flail, 
That seems to swing uncertain, and yet falls 
Full on the destined ear. Wide flies the chaff ; 
The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist 
Of atoms, sparkling in the noonday beam. 
Come hither, ye that press your beds of down 
And sleep not ; see him sweating o'er his bread 
Before he eats it. 'T is the primal curse, 
But softened into mercy ; made the pledge 
Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan. 

By ceaseless action, all that is subsists. 
Constant rotation of the unwearied wheel 
That Nature rides upon, maintains her health, 
Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads 
An instant's pause, and lives but while she moves. 
Its own revolvency upholds the world. 
Winds from all quarters agitate the air, 
And fit the limpid element for use, 
Else noxious : oceans, rivers, lakes, and streams, 



318 SELECTIONS. 

All feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansed 

By restless undulation. Even the oak 

Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm : 

He seems indeed indignant, and to feel 

The impression of the blast with proud disdain, 

Frowning as if in his unconscious arm 

He held the thunder. But the monarch owes 

His firm stability to what he scorns, 

More fixed below, the more disturbed above. 

The law, by which all creatures else are bound, 

Binds man, the lord of all. Himself derives 

No mean advantage from a kindred cause, 

From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease. 

The sedentary stretch their lazy length 

When custom bids, but no refreshment find, 

For none they need : the languid eye, the cheek 

Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk, 

And withered muscle, and the vapid soul, 

Reproach their owner with that love of rest 

To which he forfeits even the rest he loves. 

Not such the alert and active. Measure life 

By its true worth, the comforts it affords, 

And theirs alone seems worthy of the name. 

Good health, and its associate in the most, 

Good temper ; spirits prompt to undertake, 

And not soon spent, though in an arduous task, — 

The powers of fancy and strong thought are theirs ; 

Even age itself seems privileged in them 

With clear exemption from its own defects. 

A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front 

The veteran shows, and gracing a gray beard 

With youthful smiles, descends toward the grave 

Sprightly, and old almost without decay. 



Like a coy maiden, Ease, when courted most, 
Farthest retires, — an idol, at whose shrine 
Who oftenest sacrifice are favored least. 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 319 

The love of Nature, and the scenes she draws, 

Is Nature's dictate. Strange ! there should be found, 

Who, self-imprisoned in their proud saloons, 

Renounce the odors of the open field 

For the unscented fictions of the loom ; 

Who, satisfied with only penciled scenes, 

Prefer to the performance of a God 

The inferior wonders of an artist's hand. 

Lovely indeed the mimic works of Art, 

But Nature's works far lovelier. I admire, 

None more admires, the painter's magic skill. 

Who shows me that which I shall never see, 

Conveys a distant country into mine, 

And throws Italian light on English walls : 

But imitative strokes can do no more 

Than please the eye — sweet Nature every sense ; 

The air salubrious of her lofty hills, 

The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales, 

And music of her woods, — no works of man 

May rival these ; these all bespeak a power 

Peculiar, and exclusively her own. 

Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast ; 

'Tis free to all, — 'tis every day renewed ; 

Who scorns it, starves deservedly at home. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 



Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 
Thou 's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem : 
To spare thee now is past my power, 

Thou bonnie gem. 



320 SELECTIONS. 



Alas ! it 's no thy neibor sweet, 
The bonnie lark, companion meet, 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 

Wi' speckled breast, 
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce reared above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, 
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless maid, 
Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betrayed, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starred ! 

Unskilful he to note the card 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 321 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 
And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to suffering worth is given. 
Who long with wants and woes has striven, 
By human pride or cunning driven 

To misery's brink, 
Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven, 

He. ruined, sink '. 

Even thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's plowshare drives, elate. 

Full on thy bloom, 

crushed beneath tf 

Shall be thv doom. 



HOW TO FIND THE HIGHEST ENJOYMENT IN NATURE. 

COW PER. 

Acquaint thyself with God. if thou wouldst taste 
His works. Admitted once to his embrace. 
Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before ; 
Thine eye shall be instructed, and thine heart, 
Made pure, shall relish with divine delight 
Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought. 
Brutes graze the mountain top with faces prone. 
And eyes intent upon the scanty herb 
It yields them ; or. recumbent on its brow. 
Ruminate heedless of the scene outspread 
Beneath, beyond, and stretching *far away 
From inland regions to the distant main. 
Man views it and admires, but rests content 
With what he views The landscape has his praise, 
But not its Author. Unconcerned who formed 



322 SELECTIONS. 

The paradise he sees, he finds it such, 

And such well-pleased to find it, asks no more. 

Not so the mind that has been touched from heaven, 

And in the school of sacred wisdom taught 

To read His wonders, in whose thought the world, 

Fair as it is, existed, ere it was. 

Not for its own sake merely, but for his 

Much more who fashioned it, he gives it praise ; 

Praise that from earth resulting, as it ought, 

To earth's acknowledged sovereign, finds at once 

Its only just proprietor in him. 

The soul that sees him, or receives sublimed 

New faculties, or learns at least to employ 

More worthy the powers she owned before, 

Discerns in all things (what with stupid gaze 

Of ignorance till then she overlooked) 

A ray of heavenly light gilding all forms 

Terrestrial in the vast and the minute, 

The unambiguous footsteps of the God 

Who gives its luster to an insect's wing, 

And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds. 



Thee we reject, unable to abide 

Thy purity, till pure as Thou art pure, 

Made such by thee, we love thee for that cause 

For which we shunned and hated thee before. 

Then we are free ; then liberty, like day, 

Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from heaven 

Fires all the faculties with glorious joy. 

A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not 

Till thou hast touched them : 'tis the voice of song, 

A loud Hosanna sent from all thy works, — 

Which he that hears it, with a shout repeats, 

And adds his rapture to the general praise. 

In that blest moment, Nature, throwing wide 

Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 323 

The Author of her beauties, who, retired 
Behind his own creation, works, unseen 
By the impure, and hears his power denied. 
Thou art the source and center of all minds, 
Their only point of rest, eternal Word ! 
From thee departing, they are lost, and rove 
At random, without honor, hope, or peace. 
From thee is all that soothes the life of man, 
His high endeavor and his glad success, 
His strength to suffer and his will to serve. 
But O, thou bounteous Giver of all good, 
Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown ! 
Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor ; 
And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away. 



AMONG THE ISLES OF SHOALS. 

CELIA THAXTER. 

Swept by every wind that blows, and beaten by the 
bitter brine for unknown ages, well may the Isles of 
Shoals be barren, bleak, and bare. At first sight, noth- 
ing can be more rough and inhospitable than they appear. 
The incessant influences of wind and sun, rain, snow, 
frost, and spray, have so bleached the tops of the rocks, 
that they look hoary, as if with age, though in the sum- 
mer-time a gracious greenness of vegetation breaks here 
and there the stern outlines, and softens somewhat their 
rugged aspect. Yet so forbidding are their shores, it 
seems scarcely worth while to land upon them, — mere 
heaps of tumbling granite in the wide and lonely sea, — 
when all the smiling, " sapphire-spangled marriage-ring 
of the land " lies ready to woo the voyager back again, 
and welcome his returning prow with pleasant sights and 



32tt SELECTIONS. 

sounds and scents that the wild wastes of water never 
know. But to the human creature who has eyes that 
will see, and ears that will hear, nature appeals with 
such a novel charm that the luxurious beauty of the land 
is half forgotten before one is aware. Its sweet gardens, 
full of color and perfume ; its rich woods and softly 
swelling hills ; its placid waters, and fields, and flowery 
meadows, are no longer dear and desirable ; for the won- 
derful sound of the sea dulls the memory of all past 
impressions, and seems to fulfil and satisfy all present 
needs. Landing for the first time, the stranger is struck 
only by the sadness of the place, — the vast loneliness; 
for there are not even trees to whisper with familiar 
voices, — nothing but sky and sea and rock. But the 
very wilderness and desolation reveal a strange beauty 
to him. Let him wait till evening comes, — 

" With sunset purple soothing all the waste," 

and he will find himself slowly succumbing to the subtle 
charm of that sea atmosphere. He sleeps with all the 
waves of the Atlantic murmuring in his ears, and wakes 
to the freshness of a summer morning ; and it seems as 
if morning were made for the first time. For the world 
is like a new-blown rose, and in the heart of it he stands, 
with only the caressing music of the water to break the 
utter silence, unless, perhaps, a song-sparrow pours out 
its blissful warble like an embodied joy. The sea is rosy, 
and the sky : the line of land is radiant ; the scattered 
sails glow with the delicious color that touches so ten- 
derly the bare, bleak rocks. These are lovelier than sky 
or sea or distant sails, or graceful gulls' wings reddened 
with the dawn ; nothing takes color so beautifully as the 



STUDIES IN NATURE, 325 

bleached granite ; the shadows are delicate, and the fine, 
hard outlines are glorified and softened beneath the fresh 
first blush of sunrise. All things are speckless and spot- 
less ; there is no dust, no noise, — nothing but peace in 
the sweet air and on the quiet sea. The day goes on ; 
the rose changes to mellow gold, the gold to clear, white 
daylight, and the sea is sparkling again. A breeze rip- 
ples the surface, and wherever it touches, the color 
deepens. A seine-boat passes, with the tawny net 
heaped in the stern, and the scarlet shirts of the rowers 
brilliant against the blue. Pleasantly their voices come 
across the water, breaking the stillness. The fishing- 
boats steal to and fro, silent, with glittering sails ; the 
gulls wheel lazily ; the far-off coasters glide rapidly along 
the horizon ; the mirage steals down the coast-line, and 
seems to remove it leagues away. And what if it were 
to slip down the slope of the world and disappear 
entirely ? You think, in a half-dream, you w r ould not 
care. Many troubles, cares, perplexities, vexations, 
lurk behind that far, faint line for you. Why should 
you be bothered any more ? 

" Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, 
And in a little while our lips are dumb."' 

And so the waves, with their lulling murmur, do their 
work, and you are soothed into repose and transient 
forgetfulness. 



326 SELECTIONS. 

THE SNOW=STORM. 

JAMES THOMSON. 

Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends, 
At first thin wavering ; till at last the flakes 
Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day 
With a continual flow. The cherished fields 
Put on their winter robe of purest white. 
'T is brightness all, save where the new snow melts 
Along the mazy current. Low, the woods 
Bow their hoar head ; and ere the languid sun 
Faint from the west emits his evening ray, 
Earth's universal face, deep hid, and chill, 
Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide 
The works of man. Drooping, the laborer-ox 
Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands 
The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, 
Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around 
The winnowing store, and claim the little boon 
Which Providence assigns them. One alone, 
The redbreast, sacred to the household gods, 
Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky, 
In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves 
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man 
His annual visit. Half-afraid, he first 
Against the window beats ; then, brisk, alights 
On the warm hearth ; then, hopping o'er the floor, 
Eyes all the smiling family askance, 
And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is, — 
Till, more familiar grown, the table crumbs 
Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds 
Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare, 
Though timorous of heart, and hard beset 
By death in various forms, — dark snares, and dogs, 
And more unpitying men, — the garden seeks, 
Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kind 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 327 

Eye the bleak heaven, and next the glistening earth, 
With looks of dumb despair ; then, sad dispersed, 
Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow. 



A HYMN OF PRAISE. 

THOMSON. 

These, as they change, Almighty Father ! — these 
Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring 
Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. 
Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; 
Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles ; 
And every sense, and every heart is joy. 
Then comes thy glory in the Summer months, 
With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun 
Shoots full perfection through the swelling year ; 
And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; 
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, 
By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales. 
Thy bounty shines in Autumn, unconfined, 
And spreads a common feast for all that lives. 
In Winter awful thou ! with clouds and storms 
Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled, 
Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing, 
Riding sublime, thou bidd'st the world adore, 
And humblest nature with thy northern blast. 

Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine > 
Deep felt, in these appear ! — a simple train, 
Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art, 
Such beauty and beneficence combined ; 
Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade ; 
And all so forming a harmonious whole, 
That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. 
But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, 



328 SELECTIONS. 

Man marks not thee ; — marks not the mighty hand, 
That, ever-busy, wheels the silent spheres ; 
Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, thence 
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring : 
Flings from the sun direct the naming day ; 
Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempest forth ; 
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, 
With transport touches all the springs of life. 



Nature, attend ! join every living soul 
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, — 
In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise 
One general song ! To Him, ye vocal gales, 
Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes 
O talk of Him in solitary glooms ! 
Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely-waving pine 
Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. 
And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, 
Who shake the astonished world, lift high to heaven 
The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. 
His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills ; 
And let me catch it as I muse along. 
Ye headlong torrents, rapid, and profound ; 
Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze 
Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, 
A secret world of wonders in thyself, 
Sound His stupendous praise : whose greater voice 
Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. 
Soft roll your Incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, 
In mingled clouds to Him ; whose sun exalts, 
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. 
Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave to Him ; 
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, 
As home he goes beneath the joyous noon. 
Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep 
Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, — 
Ye constellations, while your angels strike, 



STUDIES IN NATURE. 329 

Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre, 

Great source of day ! best image here below 

Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, 

From world to world, the vital ocean round. 

On Nature write with every beam His praise. 

The thunder rolls : be hushed the prostrate world ; 

While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. 

Bleat out afresh, ye hills. Ye mossy rocks, 

Retain the sound : the broad responsive low, 

Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns, 

And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. 

Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song 

Burst from the groves ! and when the restless day, 

Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, 

Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm 

The listening shades, and teach the night His praise = 



CHAPTER FOUR. 



Home Scenes and Influences. 

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

ROBERT BURNS. 

My loved, my honored, much respected friend ! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end : 

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise. 

To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 
The lowly train in life's sequestered scene ; 

The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; — 
What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; 
Ah ! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 

The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts, retreating frae the pleugh ; 

The black'ning trains o' craws, to their repose ; 

The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes: 
This night his weekly moil is at an end ; 

Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
The expectant wee things, toddlin', stacher through 

To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee. 

His wee bit ingle, blinking bonnily, 
His clean hearthstane, his thriftie wifie's smile, 
[33o] 



HOME SCENES AND INFLUENCES. 331 

The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, 
And makes him quite forget his labor and his toil. 

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, 

At service out, amang the farmers roun' : 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neibor town : 

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 

Comes hame, perhaps to show a braw new gown, 
Or deposit her sair won penny-fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be, 

With joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet, 

And each for other's welfare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet ; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 

The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 
Anticipation forward points the view. 

The mother, wi' her needle and her shears, 
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; — 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their master's and their mistress's command, 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand, 

And ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play - 
"And O ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 
And mind your duty, duly, morn and night ! 

Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 
Implore His counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright." 

But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neibor lad cam' o'er the moor 



332 SELECTIONS. 

To do some errands, and convoy her name. 

The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 

With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, 
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleased the mother hears it 's nae wild, worthless rake, 

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ; 

A strappin' youth ; he takes the mother's eye ; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit 's no ill ta'en ; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 

The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 
But blate and lathefu', scarce can weel behave ; 

The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave ; 
Weel pleased to think her bairn 's respected like the lave. 

happy love ! — where love like this is found ! 

O heartfelt raptures ! — bliss beyond compare ! 

1 've paced much this weary, mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare, — 
If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, — 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, — 

'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale. 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 

Curse on his perjured arts ! dissembling smooth ! 
Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? 

Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 
Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ? 
Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild ? 



HOME SCENES AND INFLUENCES. 333 

But now the supper crowns their simple board, 

The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's food ; 

The soupe their only ha wide does afford, 

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood : 
The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, 

To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck, fell ; 
And aft he 's pressed, and aft he ca's it gude ; 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, 

How 't was towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 



The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 
The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace, 

The big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride ; 

His bonnet reverently is laid aside, 
His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare ; 

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 
He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
And " Let us worship God ! " he says, with solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name, 

Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame, 
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 

Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; 
The tickled ear no heartfelt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison ha'e they with our Creator's praise. 



The priest-like father reads, the sacred page, — 
How Abram was the friend of God on high 

Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek*s ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire : 



334 SELECTIONS. 

Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, — 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 

How He, who bore in heaven the second name, 
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : 
How his first followers and servants sped, 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 

And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven' 
command, 

Then, kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," 

That thus they all shall meet in future days, 

There ever bask in uncreated rays, — 
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, — 

Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide, 

Devotion's every grace, except the heart. 

The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 

But, haply, in some cottage far apart, 
May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul, 
And in His book of life the inmates poor enroll. 

Then homeward all take off their several way, 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 



HOME SCENES AND INFLUENCES. 335 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, 
That He, who stills the raven's clamorous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 

Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 

But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 
That makes her loved at home, revered abroad : 

Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
" An honest man 's the noblest work of God ; " 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 

What is a lordling's pomp ? — a cumbrous load, 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 

Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined ! 

O Scotia, my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! 

And O ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 

Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand, a wall of fire, around their much-loved isle, 

O Thou ! who poured the patriotic tide 

That streamed through Wallace's undaunted heart. 
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 

(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, 
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 

O never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; 
But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! 



336 SELECTIONS. 

INFLUENCE OF HOME. 

RICHARD HENRY DANA. 

Home gives a certain serenity to the mind, so that 
everything is well denned, and in a clear atmosphere, 
and the lesser beauties [are] brought out to rejoice in 
the pure glow which floats over and beneath them from 
the earth and sky. In this state of mind, afflictions 
come to us chastened ; and if the wrongs of the world 
cross us in our door-path, we put them aside without 
anger. Vices are about us, not to lure us away, or 
make us morose, but to remind us of our frailty, and 
keep down our pride. We are put into a right relation 
with the world ; neither holding it in proud scorn, like 
the solitary man, nor being carried along by shifting and 
hurried feelings, and vague and careless notions of 
things, like the world's man. We do not take novelty 
for improvement, or set up vogue for a rule of conduct ; 
neither do we despair, as if all great virtues had departed 
with the years gone by, though we see vices, frailties, 
and follies taking growth in the very light which is 
spreading over the earth. 

Our safest way of coming into communion with man- 
kind is through our own household. For there our 
sorrow and regret at the failings of the bad are in pro- 
portion to our love, while our familiar intercourse with 
the good has a secretly assimilating influence upon our 
characters. The domestic man has an independence of 
thought which puts him at ease in society, and a cheer- 
fulness and benevolence of feeling which seem to ray out 
from him, and to diffuse a pleasurable sense over those 
near him, like a soft, bright day. As domestic life 



HOME SCENES AND INFLUENCES. 337 

strengthens a man's virtue, so does it help to a sound 
judgment and a right balancing of things, and gives an 
integrity and propriety to the whole character. God, in 
his goodness, has ordained that virtue should make its 
own enjoyment, and that wherever a vice or frailty is 
rooted out, something should spring up to be a beauty 
and delight in its stead. But a man of a character 
rightly cast, has pleasures at home, which, though fitted 
to his highest nature, are common to him as his daily 
food ; and he moves about his house under a continued 
sense of them, and is happy almost without heeding it. 



CHILDREN ASLEEP. 

MATTHEW ARNOLD. 

They sleep in sheltered rest, 
Like helpless birds in the warm nest, 
On the castle's southern side, 
Where feebly comes the mournful roar 
Of buffeting wind and surging tide 
Through many a room and corridor. 
Full on their window the moon's ray 
Makes their chamber as bright as day ; 
It shines upon the blank white walls, 
And on the snowy pillows falls. 
And on the two angel heads doth play. 
Turned to each other, — the eyes closed. 
The lashes on the cheeks reposed. 
Round each sweet brow the cap close-set 
Hardly lets peep the golden hair ; 
Through the soft-opened lips the air 
Scarcely moves the coverlet. 
One little wandering arm is thrown 
At random on the counterpane, 



338 SELECTIONS. 

And often the fingers close in haste, 
As if their baby owner chased 
The butterflies again. 



REPRESSION. 

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 

. . . And now for the moral — and that is, that 
life consists of two parts — Expression and Repression — 
each of which has its solemn duties. To love, joy, 
hope, faith, pity, belongs the duty of expression : to 
envy, malice, revenge, and all uncharitableness, belongs 
the duty of repression. 

Some very religious and moral people err by applying 
repression to both classes alike. They repress equally 
the expression of love and hatred, of pity and of anger. 
Such forget one great law, as true in the moral world as 
in the physical, — that repression lessens and deadens. 
Twice or thrice mowing will kill off the sturdiest crop of 
weeds : the roots die for want of expression. A com- 
press on a limb will stop its growing ; the surgeon knows 
this, and puts a tight bandage around a tumor ; but 
what if we should put a tight bandage about the heart 
and lungs, as some young ladies of my acquaintance do, 
— or should bandage the feet, as they do in China ? 
And what if we bandage a nobler inner faculty, and wrap 
love in grave-clothes ? 

How many live a stingy and niggardly life in regard 
to their richest inward treasures ! They live with those 
they love dearly, whom a few more words and deeds 
expressive of this love would make so much richer, hap- 



HOME SCENES AND INFLUENCES. 339 

pier, and better ; and they cannot, will not, turn the 
key and give it out. People who in their very souls 
really do love, esteem, reverence, almost worship each 
other, live a barren, chilly life side by side, busy, anx- 
ious, preoccupied, letting their love go by as a matter of 
course, a last year's growth, with no present buds and 
blossoms. 

Are there not sons and daughters who have parents 
living with them as angels unawares, — husbands and 
wives, brothers and sisters, in whom the material for a 
beautiful life lies locked away in unfruitful silence, — who 
give time to everything but the cultivation and expression 
of mutual love ? 

The time is coming, they think, in some far future, 
when they shall find leisure to enjoy each other, to stop 
and rest side by side, to discover to each other hidden 
treasures which lie idle and unused. 

Alas ! time flies, and death steals on ; and we reiter- 
ate the complaint of one in Scripture : ' ' It came to pass, 
while thy servant was busy hither and thither, the man 
was gone." 

The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words 
left unsaid and deeds left undone. "She never knew 
how I loved her." "He never knew what he was to 
me. " "I always meant to make more of our friendship. " 
" I did not know what he was to me till he was gone." 
Such words are the poisoned arrows which cruel death 
shoots backward at us from the door of the sepulcher. 

How much more might we make of our family life, 
of our friendships, if every secret thought blossomed into 
a deed ! We are not now speaking merely of personal 
caresses. These may or may not be the best language 



340 SELECTIONS. 

of affection. Many are endowed with a delicacy, a 
fastidiousness of physical organization, which shrinks 
away from too much of these, repelled and overpowered. 
But there are words and looks and little observances, 
thoughtfulnesses, watchful little attentions, which speak 
of love, which make it manifest, and there is scarce a 
family that might not be richer in heart-wealth for more 
of them. 

It is a mistake to suppose that relations must of 
course love each other because they are relations. Love 
must be cultivated, and can be increased by judicious 
culture, as wild fruits may double their bearing under the 
hand of the gardener, and love can dwindle and die out 
by neglect, as choice flower-seeds planted in poor soil 
dwindle and grow single. 



A NEW ENGLAND SNOW-STORM AND A HOME SCENE. 

SYLVESTER JUDD. 

An event common in New England is at its height. 
It is snowing, and has been for a whole day and night, 
with a strong northeast wind. Let us take a moment 
when the storm intermits, and look in at Margaret's and 
see how they do. But we cannot approach the place by 
any of the ordinary methods of travel ; the roads, lanes, 
and by-paths are blocked up : no horse or ox could 
make his way through those deep drifts, immense 
mounds, and broad plateaus of snow. If we are dis- 
posed to adopt the means of conveyance formerly so 
much in vogue — whether snow-shoes or magic — we 
may possibly get there. The house, or hut, is half sunk 



HOME SCENES AND INFLUENCES. 341 

in a snow-bank ; the waters of the pond are covered 
with a solid enamel as of ivory ; the oxen and the cow 
in the barn-yard, look like great horned sheep in their 
fleeces of snow. All is silence, and lifelessness, and if 
you please to say, desolation. Hens there are none, 
nor turkeys, nor ducks, nor birds, nor Bull, nor Margaret. 
If you see any signs of a human being, it is the dark 
form of Hash, mounted on snow-shoes, going from the 
house to the barn. Yet there are the green hemlocks 
and pines and firs, green as in summer, some growing 
along the flank of the hill that runs north from the 
Indian's Head, looking like the real snowballs, blos- 
soming in midwinter, and nodding with large white 
flowers. But there is one token of life, the smoke 
coming from the low gray chimney, which, if you regard 
it as one, resembles a large, elongated, transparent 
balloon ; or if you look at it by piecemeal, it is a 
beautiful current of bluish-white vapor, flowing upward 
unendingly ; and prettily is it striped and particolored 
as it passes successively the green trees, the bare rocks, 
and white crown of the hill behind ; nor does its interest 
cease even when it disappears among the clouds. Some 
would dwell a good while on that smoke, and see in it 
manifold out-shows and denotements of spiritualities ; 
others would say, the house is buried so deep, it must 
come up from the hot mischief-hatching heart of the 
earth ; others still, would fancy the whole pond lay in its 
winding-sheet, and that if they looked in, they would 
behold the dead faces of their friends. Our own senti- 
ment is, that that smoke comes from a great fire in the 
great fireplace, and that if we should go into the house, 
we should find the family as usual there ; a part which, 



342 SELECTIONS. 

as the storm begins to renew itself, we shall do well to 
take the opportunity to verify. 

Flourishing in the center of these high-rising and 
broad-spreading snows, unmoved amid the fiercest onsets 
of the storm, comfortable in the extremity of winter, the 
family are all gathered in the kitchen, and occupied as 
may be. In the cavernous fireplace burns a great fire, 
composed of a huge green backlog, a large green fore- 
stick, and a high cobwork of crooked and knotty refuse- 
wood — ivy, hornbeam, and beech. Through this the 
yellow flame leaps and forks, and the bluish-gray smoke 
flows up the ample sluiceway of the chimney. From 
the ends of the wood the sap fries, and drips on the 
sizzling coals below, and flies off in angry steam. 
Under the forestick great red coals roll out, sparkle 
a semibrieve, lose their grosser substance, indicate a 
more ethereal essence in prototypal forms of white, 
down-like cinders, and then fall away into brown ashes. 



TO A SLEEPING CHILD. 

THOMAS HOOD. 

O, 't is a touching thing, to make one weep, — 
A tender infant with its curtained eye, 
Breathing as it would neither live nor die, 
With that unchanging countenance of sleep ! 
As if its silent dream, serene and deep, 
Had lined its slumber with a still blue sky, 
So that the passive cheeks unconscious lie, 
With no more life than roses, — just to keep 
The blushes warm, and the mild, odorous breath. 
O blossom boy ! so calm is thy repose, 
So sweet a compromise of life and death, 



HOME SCENES AND INFLUENCES. 343 

"T is pity those fair buds should e'er unclose 
For memory to stain their inward leaf. 
Tingeing thy dreams with unacquainted grief. 

Thine eyelids slept so beauteously. I deemed 

No eyes could wake so beautiful as they : 

Thy rosy cheeks in such still slumbers lay. 

I loved their peacefulness, nor ever dreamed 

Of dimples : — for those parted lids so seemed. 

I never thought a smile could sweetlier play. 

Nor that so graceful life could chase away 

Thy graceful death, — till those blue eyes upbeamed. 

Now slumber lies in dimpled eddies drowned. 

And roses bloom more rosily for joy. 

And odorous silence ripens into sound, 

And fingers move to sound. — All-beauteous boy I 

How thou dost waken into smiles, and prove, 

If not more lovely, thou art more like Love ! 



HOME LIFE OF THE PRIMROSES. 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a 
sloping hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood 
behind, and a prattling river before ; on one side a 
meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted of 
about twenty acres of excellent land, having given a 
hundred pounds for my predecessor's good-will. Noth- 
ing could exceed the neatness of my little inclosure, 
the elms and hedge-rows appearing with inexpressible 
beauty. My house consisted of but one story, and 
was covered with thatch, which gave it an air of great 
snugness ; the walls on the inside were nicelv white- 
washed, and my daughters undertook to adorn them 



34:4 SELECTIONS. 

with pictures of their own designing. Though the same 
room served us for parlor and kitchen, that only made 
it the warmer. Besides, as it was kept with the utmost 
neatness, the dishes, plates, and coppers being well 
scoured, and all disposed in bright rows on the shelves, 
the eye was agreeably relieved, and did not want richer 
furniture. There were three other apartments, — one 
for my wife and me, another for our two daughters, 
within our own, and the third, with two beds, for the 
rest of the children. 

The little republic to which I gave laws, was regu- 
lated in the following manner : by sunrise we all assem- 
bled in our common apartment, the fire being previously 
kindled by the servant. After we had saluted each 
other with proper ceremony (for I always thought fit 
to keep up some mechanical forms of good breeding, 
without which freedom ever destroys friendship), we all 
bent in gratitude to that Being who gave us another 
day. This duty being performed, my son and I went to 
pursue our usual industry abroad, while my wife and 
daughters employed themselves in providing break- 
fast, which was always ready at a certain time. I 
allowed half an hour for this meal, and an hour for 
dinner ; which time was taken up in innocent mirth 
between my wife and daughters, and in philosophical 
arguments between my son and me. 

As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our 
labors after it was gone down ; but returned home to 
the expecting family, where smiling looks, a neat hearth, 
and pleasant fire, were prepared for our reception. Nor 
were we without guests : sometimes farmer Flambor- 
ough, our talkative neighbor, and often the blind piper, 



HOME SCENES AND INFLUENCES. 345 

would pay us a visit, and taste our gooseberry wine, for 
the making of which we had lost neither the receipt nor 
the reputation. These harmless people had several 
ways of being good company ; while one played, the 
other would sing some soothing ballad, — '/Johnny Arm- 
strong's Last Good Night," or the "Cruelty of Barbary 
Allen." The night was concluded in the manner we 
began the morning, my youngest boys being appointed 
to read the lessons of the day ; and he that read loudest, 
distinctest, and best, was to have a halfpenny on Sun- 
day to put in the poor's box. 

When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery, 
which all my sumptuary edicts could not restrain. How 
well soever I fancied my lectures against pride had con- 
quered the vanity of my daughters, I found them still 
secretly attached to all their former finery : they still 
loved laces, ribbons, bugles, and catgut ; my wife her- 
self retained a passion for her crimson paduasoy, because 
I formerly happened to say it became her. 

The first Sunday in particular, their behavior served 
to mortify me ; I had desired my girls the preceding 
night to be dressed early the next day ; for I always 
loved to be at church a good while before the rest of the 
congregation. They punctually obeyed my directions ; 
but when we were to assemble in the morning at break- 
fast, down came my wife and daughters, dressed out in 
all their former splendor, — their hair plastered up with 
pomatum, their faces patched to taste, their trains bun- 
dled up in a heap behind, and rustling at every motion. 
I could not help smiling at their vanity, particularly that 
of my wife, from whom I expected more discretion. In 
this exigence, therefore, my only resource was to order 



346 SELECTIONS. 

my son, with an important air, to call our coach. The 
girls were amazed at the command ; but I repeated it 
with more solemnity than before. "Surely, my dear, 
you jest, " cried my wife, ' ' we can walk it perfectly well : 
we want no coach to carry us now." "You mistake, 
child," returned I, "we do want a coach; for if we 
walk to church in this trim, the very children in the par- 
ish will hoot after us." "Indeed," replied my wife, "I 
always imagined that my Charles was fond of seeing his 
children neat and handsome about him. " "You may 
be as neat as you please, " interrupted I, "and I shall 
love you the better for it ; but all this is not neatness, 
but frippery. These ruffiings, and pinkings, and patch- 
ings will only make us hated by all the wives of all 
our neighbors. 

"No, my children," continued I, more gravely, 
"those gowns may be altered into something of a 
plainer cut ; for finery is very unbecoming in us, who 
want the means of decency. I do not know whether 
such flouncing and shredding is becoming even in the 
rich, if we consider, upon a moderate calculation, that 
the nakedness of the indigent world might be clothed 
from the trimmings of the vain." 

This remonstrance had a proper effect ; they went 
with great composure, that very instant, to change their 
dress ; and the next day I had the satisfaction of finding 
my daughters, at their own request, employed in cutting 
up their trains into Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill, 
the two little ones, and what was still more satisfactory, 
the gowns seemed improved by this curtailing. 



HOME SCENES AND INFLUENCES. 347 

SALUTARY EFFECTS OF PARENTAL DISCIPLINE. 

THOMAS CARLYLE. 

Obedience is our universal duty and destiny ; 
wherein whoso will not bend must break : too early 
and too thoroughly we cannot be trained to know 
that would, in this world of ours, is as mere zero to 
should, and for most part as the smallest of fractions 
even to shall. Hereby was laid for me the basis of 
worldly discretion, nay, of morality itself. Let me not 
quarrel with my upbringing. It was rigorous, too 
frugal, compressively secluded, every way unscientific ; 
yet in that very strictness and domestic solitude might 
there not lie the root of deeper earnestness, of the stem 
from which all noble fruit must grow ? Above all, how 
unskilful soever, it was loving, it was well-meant, 
honest ; whereby every deficiency was helped. My 
kind mother, for as such I must ever love the good 
Gretchen, did me one altogether invaluable service • 
she taught me, less indeed by word than by act and 
daily reverent look and^habitude, her own simple version 
of the Christian faith. Andreas, too, attended church ; 
yet more like a parade-duty, for which he in the other 
world expected pay with arrears,^ as, I trust, he has 
received ; but my mother, with a true woman's heart, 
and fine though uncultivated sense, was in the strictest 
acceptation religious. How indestructibly the good 
grows, and propagates itself, even among the weedy 
entanglements of evil ! The highest whom I knew on 
earth I here saw bowed down, with awe unspeakable, 
before a higher in heaven : such things, especially in 
infancy, reach inward to the very core of your being ; 



348 SELECTIONS. 

mysteriously does a Holy of Holies build itself into 
visibility in the mysterious deeps ; and reverence, the 
divinest in man, springs forth undying from its mean 
envelopment of fear. Wouldst thou rather be a peas- 
ant's son that knew, were it never so rudely, there is a 
God in heaven and in man ; or a duke's son that only 
knew there were ' ' two-and-thirty quarters on the 
family coach " ? 






CHAPTER FIVE 



Studies in Character. 

THE LAST DAYS OF WASHINGTON. 

WASHINGTON IRVING. 
From the "Life of George Washington." 

Winter had now set in, with occasional wind and 
rain and frost ; yet Washington still kept up his active 
round of indoor and outdoor avocations, as his diary 
records. He was in full health and vigor, dined out 
occasionally, and had frequent guests at Mount Vernon, 
and, as usual, was part of every day in the saddle, going 
the rounds of his estates, and, in his military phrase- 
ology, " visiting the outposts." 

He had recently walked with his favorite nephew 
about the grounds, showing the improvements he 
intended to make, and had especially pointed out the 
spot where he purposed building a new family vault ; 
the old one being damaged by the roots of a tree which 
had overgrown it and caused it to leak. " This change," 
said he, " I shall make the first of all ; for I may require 
it before the rest." 

1 'When I parted from him," adds the nephew, "he 
stood on the steps of the front door, where he took 
leave of myself and another. ... It was a bright frosty 
morning ; he had taken his usual ride, and the clear 
healthy flush on his cheek, and his sprightly manner, 

[349] 



350 SELECTIONS. 

brought the remark from both of us that we had never 
seen the general look so well. I have sometimes thought 
him decidedly the handsomest man I ever saw ; and 
when [he was] in a lively mood, so full of pleasantry, so 
agreeable to all with whom he associated, I could hardly 
realize that he was the same Washington whose dignity 
awed all who approached him." 

For some time past, Washington had been occupied 
in digesting a complete system on which his estate was 
to be managed for several succeeding years ; specifying 
the cultivation of the several farms, with tables desig- 
nating the rotation of the crops. It occupied thirty folio 
pages, and was executed with that clearness and method 
which characterized all his business papers. This was 
finished on the ioth of December, and was accompanied 
by a letter of that date to his manager, or steward. It is 
a valuable document, showing the soundness and vigor of 
his intellect at this advanced stage of his existence, and 
the love of order that reigned throughout his affairs. 
"My greatest anxiety," said he on a previous occasion, 
"is to have all these concerns in such a clear and 
distinct form that no reproach may attach itself to me 
when I have taken my departure for the land of spirits." 

It was evident, however, that full of health and 
vigor, he looked forward to his long-cherished hope, — 
the enjoyment of a serene old age in this home of his 
heart. 

According to his diary, the morning on which these 
voluminous instructions to his steward were dated was 
clear and calm, but the afternoon was lowering. The 
next day (i ith), he notes that there was wind and rain, 
and " at night a large circle round the moon." 






STUDIES IN CHARACTER. 351 

The morning of the 12th was overcast. That morn- 
ing he wrote a letter to Hamilton, heartily approving of 
a plan for a military academy, which the latter had sub- 
mitted to the Secretary of War. "The establishment 
of an institution of this kind upon a respectable and 
extensive basis," observes he, "has ever been consid- 
ered by me an object of primary importance to this 
country ; and while I was in the chair of government, I 
omitted no proper opportunity of recommending it, in 
my public speeches and otherwise, to the attention of 
the legislature. But I never undertook to go into any 
detail of the organization of such an academy, leaving 
this task to others, whose pursuit in the path of science, 
and attention to the arrangement of such institutions, 
had better qualified them for the execution of it. . . . 
I sincerely hope that the subject will meet with due 
attention, and that the reasons for its establishment 
which you have clearly pointed out in your letter to the 
secretary, will prevail upon the legislature to place it 
upon a permanent and respectable footing. " He closes 
his letter with an assurance of "very great esteem 
and regard," the last words he was ever to address to 
Hamilton. 

About ten o'clock he mounted his horse, and rode out 
as usual to make the rounds of the estate. The ominous 
ring round the moon, which he had observed on the pre- 
ceding night, proved a fatal portent. "About one 
o'clock," he notes, "it began to snow, soon after to 
hail, and then turned to a settled, cold rain." Having 
on an overcoat, he continued his ride without regard- 
ing the weather, and did not return to the house until 
after three. 



352 SELECTIONS. 

His secretary approached him with letters to be 
franked, that they might be taken to the post-office 
in the evening. Washington franked the letters, but 
observed, that the weather was too bad to send a serv- 
ant out with them. Mr. Lear perceived that snow was 
hanging from his hair, and expressed fears that he had 
got wet ; but he replied, that his greatcoat had kept 
him dry. As dinner had been waiting for him, he sat 
down to table without changing his dress. "In the 
evening," writes the secretary, "he appeared as well 
as usual." 

On the following morning the snow was three inches 
deep and still falling, which prevented him from taking 
his usual ride. He complained of a sore throat, and 
had evidently taken cold the day before. In the after- 
noon the weather cleared up, and he went out on the 
grounds between the house and [the] river, to mark 
some trees which were to be cut down. A hoarseness 
which had hung to him through the day grew worse 
toward night, but he made light of it. 

He was very cheerful in the evening, as he sat in the 
parlor with Mrs. Washington and Mr. Lear, amusing 
himself with the papers which had been brought from 
the post-office. When he met with anything interesting 
or entertaining, he would read it aloud as well as his 
hoarseness would permit, or he listened and made occa- 
sional comments, while Mr. Lear read the debates of the 
Virginia Assembly. 

On retiring to bed, Mr. Lear suggested that he 
should take something to relieve the cold. "No," 
replied he, "you know I never take anything for a cold. 
Let it go as it came." 



STUDIES IN CHARACTER. 353 

In the night he was taken extremely ill with ague 
and difficulty of breathing. Between two and three 
o'clock in the morning he awoke Mrs. Washington, who 
would have risen to call a servant, but he would not 
permit her, lest she should take cold. At daybreak, 
when the servant woman entered to make a fire, she 
was sent to call Mr. Lear. He found the general 
breathing with difficulty, and hardly able to utter a word 
intelligibly. Washington desired that Dr. Craik, who 
lived in Alexandria, should be sent for, and that in 
the meantime Rawlins, one of the overseers, should 
be summoned, to bleed him before the doctor could 
arrive. 

A gargle was prepared for his throat, but whenever 
he attempted to swallow any of it, he was convulsed 
and almost suffocated. Rawlins made his appearance 
soon after sunrise, but when the general's arm was 
ready for the operation, became agitated. "Don't be 
afraid," said the general, as well as he could speak. 
Rawlins made an incision. "The orifice is not large 
enough," said Washington. The blood, however, ran 
pretty freely, and Mrs. Washington, uncertain whether 
the treatment was proper, and fearful that too much 
blood might be taken, begged Mr. Lear to stop it. 
When he was about to untie the string, the general put 
up his hand to prevent him ; and as soon as he could 
speak, murmured, "More — more;" but Mrs. Wash- 
ington's doubts prevailed, and the bleeding was stopped, 
after about half a pint of blood had been taken. Exter- 
nal applications were now made to the throat, and his 
feet were bathed in warm water, but without affording 
any relief. 



354 SELECTIONS. 

His old friend, Dr. Craik, arrived between eight and 
nine, and two other physicians, Drs. Dick and Brown, 
were called in. Various remedies were tried, and addi- 
tional bleeding, but all of no avail. 

"About half-past four o'clock," writes Mr. Lear, 
"he desired me to call Mrs. Washington to his bedside, 
when he requested her to go down into his room and 
take from his desk two wills, which she would find there, 
and bring them to him, which she did. Upon looking 
at them, he gave her one, which he observed was useless, 
as being superseded by the other, and desired her to 
burn it, which she did, and took the other and put it 
into her closet. 

" After this was done, I returned to his bedside and 
took his hand. He said to me : ' I find I am going : 
my breath cannot last long. I believed from the first 
that the disorder would prove fatal. Do you arrange 
and record all my late military letters and papers. 
Arrange my accounts and settle my books, as you know 
more about them than any one else ; and let Mr. Rawlins 
finish recording my other letters, which he has begun.' 
I told him this should be done. He then asked if I 
recollected anything which it was essential for him to 
do, as he had but a very short time to continue with us. 
I told him that I could recollect nothing ; but that 
I hoped he was not so near his end. He observed, 
smiling, that he certainly was, and that, as it was the 
debt which we must all pay, he looked to the event 
with perfect resignation." 

In the course of the afternoon he appeared to be in 
great pain and distress from the difficulty of breathing, 
and frequently changed his posture in the bed. Mr. 



STUDIES IN CHARACTER. 355 

Lear endeavored to raise him and turn him with as 
much ease as possible. "I am afraid I fatigue you too 
much," the general would say Upon being assured to 
the contrary, "Well," observed he, gratefully, "it is 
a debt we must pay to .each other, and I hope when 
you want aid of this kind, you will find it." 

His servant, Christopher, had been in the room 
during the day, and almost the whole time on his feet. 
The general noticed it in the afternoon, and kindly told 
him to sit down. 

About five o'clock his old friend, Dr. Craik, came 
again into the room, and approached the bedside. 
"Doctor," said the general, " I die hard, but I am not 
afraid to go. I believed, from my first attack, that I 
should not survive it; — my breath cannot last long." 
The doctor pressed his hand in silence, retired from the 
bedside, and sat by the fire, absorbed in grief. 

Between five and six, the other physicians came in, 
and he was assisted to sit up in his bed. " I feel I am 
going," said he ; "I thank you for your attentions, but 
I pray you to take no more trouble about me ; let me 
go off quietly ; I cannot last long." He lay down 
again ; all retired excepting Dr. Craik. The general 
continued uneasy and restless, but without complaining, 
frequently asking what hour it was. 

Further remedies were tried without avail in the 
evening. He took whatever was offered him, did as he 
was desired by the physicians, and never uttered sigh or 
complaint. 

"About ten o'clock," writes Mr. Lear, "he made 
several attempts to speak to me before he could effect 
it. At length he said, ' I am just going. Have me 



356 SELECTIONS. 

decently buried, and do not let my body be put into the 
vault in less than three days after I am dead.' I bowed 
assent, for I could not speak. He then looked at me 
again and said, ' Do you understand me ? ' I replied, 
'Yes.' "Tis well,' said he." 

About ten minutes before he expired (which was 
between ten and eleven o'clock) his breathing became 
easier. He lay quietly ; he withdrew his hand from 
mine and felt his own pulse. I saw his countenance 
change. I spoke to Dr. Craik, who sat by the fire. 
He came to the bedside. The general's hand fell from 
his wrist. I took it in mine and pressed it to my bosom. 
Dr. Craik put his hands over his [the general's] eyes, 
and he expired without a struggle or a sigh. 

' 'While we were fixed in silent grief, Mrs. Wash- 
ington, who was seated at the foot of the bed, asked, 
with a firm and collected voice, ' Is he gone ? ' I could 
not speak, but held up my hand as a signal that he was 
no more. ' 'Tis well,' said she in the same voice. 'All 
is now over ; I shall soon follow him. I have no more 
trials to pass through.' " 



THE CARPENTER. 

GEORGE ELIOT, 

The afternoon sun was warm on the five workmen 
there, busy upon doors and window-frames and wain- 
scoting. A scent of pine-wood from a tent-like pile 
of planks outside the open door mingled itself with the 
scent of the elder-bushes, which were spreading their 
summer snow close to the open window opposite ; 



STUDIES IN CHARACTER. 357 

the slanting sunbeams shone through the transparent 
shavings that flew before the steady plane, and lit up 
the fine grain of the oak paneling which stood propped 
against the wall. On a heap of those soft shavings a 
rough gray shepherd-dog had made himself a pleasant 
bed, and was lying with his nose between his forepaws, 
occasionally wrinkling his brows to cast a glance at the 
tallest of the five workmen, who was carving a shield 
in the center of a wooden mantelpiece. It was to this 
workman that the strong barytone belonged which was 
heard above the sound of plane and hammer, singing, — 

" Awake, my soul, and with the sun 
Thy daily stage of duty run ; 
Shake off dull sloth " 

Here some measurement was to be taken which required 
more concentrated attention, and the sonorous voice 
subsided into a low whistle ; but it presently broke out 
again with renewed vigor : — 

" Let all thy converse be sincere, 
Thy conscience as the noonday clear." 

Such a voice could only come from a broad chest, and 
the broad chest belonged to a large-boned, muscular 
man, nearly six feet high, with a back so flat and a 
head so well-poised, that when he drew himself up to 
take a more distant survey of his work, he had the air 
of a soldier standing at ease. The sleeve, rolled up 
above the elbow, showed an arm that was likely to win 
the prize for feats of strength ; yet the long, supple 
hand, with its bony finger-tips, looked ready for works 
of skill. 



358 SELECTIONS. 

CHARACTER OF ST, PAUL. 

DR. PALEY. 
From the " Horse Paulinae." 

Here, then, we have a man of liberal attainments, 
and, in other points, of sound judgment, who had 
addicted his life to the. service of the gospel. We see 
him, in the prosecution of his purpose, traveling from 
country to country, enduring every species of hardship, 
encountering every extremity of danger, assaulted by the 
populace, punished by the magistrates, scourged, beat, 
stoned, left for dead ; expecting, wherever he came, a 
renewal of the same treatment, and the same dangers ; 
yet, when driven from one city, preaching in the next ; 
spending his whole time in the employment, sacrificing 
to it his pleasures, his ease, his safety ; persisting in 
this course to old age, unaltered by the experience of 
perverseness, ingratitude, prejudice, desertion ; unsub- 
dued by anxiety, want, labor, persecutions ; unwearied 
by long confinement, undismayed by the prospect of 
death. Such was Paul. We have his letters in our 
hands ; we have also a history purporting to be written 
by one of his fellow travelers, and appearing, by a 
comparison with these letters, certainly to have been 
written by some person well acquainted with the trans- 
actions of his life. From the letters, as well as from 
the history, we gather not only the account which we 
have stated of him, but that he was one out of many 
who acted and suffered in the same manner ; and that 
of those who did so, several had been the companions 
of Christ's ministry, the ocular witnesses, or pretending 
to be such, of his miracles and of his resurrection. We 



STUDIES IN CHARACTER. 359 

moreover find this same person referring in his letters to 
his supernatural conversion, the particulars and accom- 
panying circumstances of which are related in the 
history ; and which accompanying circumstances, if all 
or any of them be true, render it impossible to have 
been a delusion. We also find him positively, and in 
appropriate terms, asserting that he himself worked the 
miracles, strictly and properly so called, in support of 
the mission which he executed ; the history, meanwhile, 
recording various passages of his ministry which come 
up to the extent of this assertion. The question is, 
whether falsehood was ever attested by evidence like 
this. Falsehoods, we know, have found their way into 
reports, into tradition, into books ; but is an example to 
be met with of a man voluntarily undertaking a life of 
want, and pain, of incessant fatigue, of continual peril ; 
submitting to the loss of his home and country, to 
stripes and stoning, to tedious imprisonment, and the 
constant expectation of a violent death, for the sake of 
carrying about a story of what was false, and what, if 
false, he must have known to be so ? 



MEN OF OUR TIMES. 

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 

Our times have been marked from all other times as 
the scene of an immense conflict which has not only 
shaken to its foundation our own country, but has been 
felt like the throes of an earthquake through all the 
nations of the earth. 



360 SELECTIONS. 

Our own days have witnessed the closing of the great 
battle, but the preparations for that battle have been the 
slow work of years. 

The Men of Our Times are the men who indirectly 
by their moral influence helped to bring on this great 
final crisis, and also those who, when it was brought on, 
and the battle was set in array, guided it wisely, and 
helped to bring it to its triumphant close. 

In making our selection we find men of widely differ- 
ent spheres and characters. Pure philanthropists, who, 
ignoring all selfish and worldly politics, have labored 
against oppression and wrong ; far-seeing statesmen, 
who could foresee the working of political causes from 
distant years ; brave naval and military men, educated 
in the schools of our country ; scientific men, who helped 
to perfect the material forces of war by their discoveries 
and ingenuity, — all are united in one great crisis, and 
have had their share in one wonderful passage of the 
world's history. 

Foremost on the roll of " men of our times," it is but 
right and fitting that we place the honored and venera- 
ted name of the man who was called by God's providence 
to be the leader of the nation in our late great struggle, 
and to seal with his blood the proclamation of universal 
liberty in this country — the name of — 

ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 

The revolution through which the American nation 
has been passing was not a mere local convulsion. It 
was a war for a principle which concerns all mankind. 
It was the war for the rights of the working class of 
society as against the usurpation of privileged aristocra- 



STUDIES IN CHARACTER. 361 

cies. You can make nothing else of it. That is the 
reason why, like a shaft of light in the judgment day, it 
has gone through all nations, dividing the multitudes to 
the right and the left. For us and our cause, all the 
common working classes of Europe, — all that toil and 
sweat, and are oppressed. Against us, all privileged 
classes, nobles, princes, bankers, and great manufactur- 
ers, — all who live at ease. A silent instinct, piercing to 
the dividing of soul and spirit, joints and marrow, has 
gone through the earth, and sent every soul with instinc- 
tive certainty where it belongs. The poor laborers of 
Birmingham and Manchester, the poor silk weavers of 
Lyons, to whom our conflict has been present starvation 
and lingering death, have stood bravely for us. No 
sophistries could blind or deceive them; they knew that 
our cause was their cause, and they suffered their part 
heroically, as if fighting by our side, because they knew 
that our victory was to be their victory. On the other 
side, all aristocrats and holders of exclusive privileges 
have felt the instinct of opposition, and the sympathy 
with a struggling aristocracy ; for they, too, felt that our 
victory would be their doom. 

This great contest has visibly been held in the hands 
of Almighty God, and is a fulfilment of the solemn 
prophecies with which the Bible is sown thick as stars, 
that he would spare the soul of the needy, and judge the 
cause of the poor. It was he who chose the instrument 
for this work, and he chose him with a visible reference 
to the rights and interests of the great majority of man- 
kind, for which he stood. 



362 SELECTIONS. 

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 

WALT WHITMAN. 

O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done ; 
The ship has weathered every wrack, the prize we sought is won 
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, 
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring ; 
But O heart ! heart ! heart ! 

O the bleeding drops of red, 

Where on the deck my Captain lies 
Fallen, cold and dead. 

O Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ; 

Rise up — for you the flag is flung, for you the bugle trills ; 

For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths, for you the shores 

a-crowding , 
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning ; 
Here Captain ! dear father ! 

This arm beneath your head ; 

It is some dream that on the deck 
You 've fallen, cold and dead. 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still ; 
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will ; 
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done 
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won ; 
Exult, O shores ! and ring, O bells ! 
But I, with mournful tread, 

Walk the deck where my Captain lies 
Fallen, cold and dead. 



STUDIES IN CHARACTER. '363 

JOAN OF ARC. 

THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 

What is to be thought of her ? What is to be 
thought of the poor shepherd girl from the hills and 
forests of Lorraine, that — like the Hebrew shepherd 
boy from the hills and forests of Judea — rose suddenly 
out of the quiet, out of the safety, out of the religious 
inspiration rooted in deep pastoral solitudes, to a station 
in the van of armies, and to the more perilous station at 
the right hand of kings ? The Hebrew boy inaugurated 
his patriotic mission by an act, by a victorious act, such 
as no man could deny. But so did the girl of Lorraine, 
if we read her story as it was read by those who saw her 
nearest. Adverse armies bore witness to the boy as no 
pretender ; but so did they to the gentle girl. Judged 
by the voices of all who saw them from a station of 
good-will, both were found true and loyal to any promises 
involved in their first acts. Enemies it was that made 
the difference between their subsequent fortunes. The 
boy rose to a splendor and a noonday prosperity, both 
personal and public, that rang through the records of 
his people, and became a byword amongst his posterity 
for a thousand years, until the scepter was departing 
from Judah. The poor, forsaken girl, on the contrary, 
drank not herself from that cup of rest which she had 
secured for France. She never sang together with them 
the songs that rose in her native Domremy, as echoes to 
the departing steps of the invaders. She mingled not 
in the festal dances at Vaucouleurs which celebrated in 
rapture the redemption of France. No ! for her voice 
was then silent : no ! for her feet were dust. Pure, 



364 SELECTIONS. 

innocent, noble-hearted girl ! whom, from earliest youth, 
ever I believed in, as full of truth and self-sacrifice, 
this was amongst the strongest pledges for thy truth 
[sincerity], — that never once — no, not for a moment 
of weakness — didst thou revel in the vision of coronets 
and honors from man. Coronets for thee ! O no ! 
Honors, if they come when all is over, are for those 
that share thy blood. Daughter of Domremy, when 
the gratitude of thy king shall awaken, thou wilt be 
sleeping the sleep of the dead. Call her, King of 
France, but she will not hear thee ! Cite her by thy 
apparitors to come and receive a robe of honor, but she 
will be found en contumace. When the thunders of 
universal France, as even yet may happen, shall pro- 
claim the grandeur of the poor shepherd girl that gave 
up all for her country, thy ear, young shepherd girl, will 
have been deaf for five centuries. To suffer and to 
do, — that was thy portion in this life; that was thy 
destiny ; and not for a moment was it hidden from 
thyself. Life, thou saidst, is short : and the sleep 
which is in the grave is long ! Let me use that life, so 
transitory, for the glory of those . heavenly dreams 
destined to comfort the sleep which is so long. This 
pure creature, — pure from every suspicion of even a 
visionary self-interest, even as she was pure in senses 
more obvious, — never once did this holy child, as 
regarded herself, relax from her belief in the darkness 
that was traveling to meet her. She might not pre- 
figure the very manner of her death ; she saw not in 
vision, perhaps, the aerial altitude of the fiery scaffold, 
the spectators without end on every road pouring into 
Rouen as to a coronation, the surging smoke, the 



STUDIES IN CHARACTER. 365 

volleying flames, the hostile faces all around, the pitying 
eye that lurked but here and there, until nature and 
imperishable truth broke loose from artificial restraints ; 
— these might not be apparent through the mists of the 
hurrying future. But the voice that called her to death, 
that she heard forever. 

Great was the throne of France even in those days, 
and great was he that sat upon it : but well Joanna knew 
that not the throne, nor he that sat upon it, was for her; 
but, on the contrary, that she was for them ; not she by 
them, but they by her, should rise from the dust. Gor- 
geous were the lilies of France, and for centuries [they] 
had the privilege to spread their beauty over land and 
sea, until, in another century, the wrath of God and 
man combined to wither them ; but well Joanna knew, 
early at Domremy she had read that bitter truth, that 
the lilies of France would decorate no garland for her. 
Flower nor bud, bell nor blossom, would ever bloom 
for her. 



When Joanna appeared, he [the dauphin] had been 
on the point of giving up the struggle with the English, 
distressed as they were, and of flying to the south of 
France. She taught him to blush for such abject coun- 
sels. She liberated Orleans, that great city, so decisive 
by its fate for the issue of the war, and then beleaguered 
by the English with an elaborate application of engi- 
neering skill unprecedented in Europe. Entering the 
city after sunset, on the 29th of April, she sang mass 
on Sunday, May 8, for the entire disappearance of the 
besieging force. On the 29th of June, she fought and 



366 SELECTIONS. 

gained over the English the decisive battle of Patay ; on 
the 9th of July, she took Troyes by a coup-de-main from 
a mixed garrison of English and Burgundians ; on the 
1 5th of that month, she carried the dauphin into 
Rheims ; on Sunday the 17th, she crowned him; and 
there she rested from her labor of triumph. All that 
was to be done, she had now accomplished : what 
remained was — to suffer. 

All this forward movement was her own : except- 
ing one man, the whole council was against her. Her 
enemies were all that drew power from earth. Her sup- 
porters were her own strong enthusiasm, and the headlong 
contagion by which she carried this sublime frenzy into 
the hearts of women, of soldiers, and of all who lived 
by labor. 



But she, the child that, at nineteen, had wrought 
wonders so great for France, was she not elated ? Did 
she not lose, as men so often have lost, all sobriety of 
mind when standing upon the pinnacle of success so 
giddy ? Let her enemies declare. During the progress of 
her movement, and in the center of ferocious struggles, 
she had manifested the temper of her feelings, by the 
pity which she had everywhere expressed for the suffer- 
ing enemy. She forwarded to the English leaders a 
touching invitation to unite with the French, as broth- 
ers, in a common crusade against infidels, thus opening 
the road for a soldierly retreat. She interposed to pro- 
tect the captive or the wounded ; she mourned over the 
excesses of her countrymen ; she threw herself off her 
horse to kneel by the dying English soldier, and to com- 



STUDIES IN CHARACTER. 367 

fort him with such ministrations, physical or spiritual, as 
his situation allowed. " Nolebat" says the evidence, 
" uti ense stio, ant quemqiiam interjicere." She shel- 
tered the English, that invoked her aid, in her own quar- 
ters. She wept as she beheld, stretched on the field of 
battle, so many brave enemies that had died without 
confession. And, as regarded herself, her elation ex- 
pressed itself thus : — On the day when she had finished 
her work, she wept ; for she knew that, when her tri- 
umphal task was done, her end must be approaching. 
Her aspirations pointed only to a place which seemed to 
her more than usually full of natural piety, as one in 
which it would give her pleasure to die. And she 
uttered, between smiles and tears, as a wish that inex- 
pressibly fascinated her heart, and yet was half-fantastic, 
a broken prayer, that God would return her to the soli- 
tudes from which he had drawn her, and suffer her to 
become a shepherdess once more. 



CHARLES SUMNER. 

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 

Sumner indignantly repelled the suggestion of intro- 
ducing any such amendments into the constitution, as 
working dishonor to that instrument by admitting into 
it, in any form, or under whatsoever pretext, the 
doctrine of the political inequality of races of men. In 
this we recognize a faultless consistency of principle. 

Sumner was cheered in the choice which he made in 
the darkest hour, by that elastic hope in the success of 
the right, which is the best inheritance of a strong and 



368 SELECTIONS. 

healthy physical and moral organization. During the 
time of the Fugitive Slave Law battle, while the conflict 
of his election was yet uncertain, he was speaking inci- 
dentally to a friend, of the tremendous influences which 
the then regnant genius of Daniel Webster could bring 
to crush any young man who opposed him. He spoke 
with feeling of what had to be sacrificed by a Boston 
young man who set himself to oppose such influences. 
The friend, in reply, expressed some admiration of his 
courage and self-sacrificing. He stopped, as he was 
walking up and down the room, and said, with sim- 
plicity, ''Courage! No, it doesn't require so very 
much courage, because I know that in a few years we 
shall have all this thing down under our feet. We shall 
set our heel upon it," and he emphasized the sentence 
by bringing his heel heavily down upon the carpet. 

" Do you really think so ? " 

" I know so ; of course we shall." 

Those words, spoken in the darkest hour of the anti- 
slavery conflict, have often seemed like a prophecy, in 
view of all the fast rushing events of "the years that 
followed. Now they are verified. Where is the man 
who counseled the North to conquer their prejudices ? 
Where is the man who raised a laugh in popular assem- 
blies at the expense of those who believed the law of 
God to be higher than the law of men ? There is a 
most striking lesson to young men in these histories. 

The grave of the brilliant and accomplished Douglas 
lay far back on the road by which Lincoln rose to fame 
and honor, and the grave of Webster on that of Charles 
Sumner, and on both of these graves might be inscribed, 
" Lo, this is the man that made not God his trust." 



STUDIES IN CHARACTER. 369 

Both scoffed at God's law, arid proclaimed the doctrine 
of expediency as above right, and both died broken 
down and disappointed ; while living and honored at 
this day, in this land and all lands, are the names of 
those, who in its darkest and weakest hour, espoused 
the cause of Liberty and Justice. 



MAY AND NOVEMBER. 

N. HAWTHORNE. 
From "The House of the Seven Gables." 

Phoebe Pyncheon slept, on the night of her arrival, 
in a chamber that looked down on the garden of the old 
house. It fronted toward the east, so that at a very 
seasonable hour a glow of crimson light came flooding 
through the window, and bathed the dingy ceiling and 
paper-hangings in its own hue. There were curtains to 
Phoebe's bed ; a dark, antique canopy and ponderous 
festoons, of a stuff which had been rich, and even mag- 
nificent, in its time ; but which now brooded over the 
girl like a cloud, making a night in that one corner, 
while elsewhere it was beginning to be day. The morn- 
ing light, however, soon stole into the aperture at the 
foot of the bed, betwixt those faded curtains. Finding 
the new guest there, — with a bloom on her cheeks like 
the morning's own, and a gentle stir of departing slum- 
ber in her limbs, as when an early breeze moves the 
foliage, — the dawn kissed her brow. It was the caress 
which a dewy maiden — such as the Dawn is, immor- 
tally — gives to her sleeping sister, partly from the 
24 



370 SELECTIONS. 

impulse of irresistible fondness, and partly as a pretty 
hint that it is time now to unclose her eyes. 

At the touch of those lips of light, Phoebe quietly 
awoke, and, for a moment, did not recognize where she 
was, nor how those heavy curtains chanced to be fes- 
tooned around her. Nothing, indeed, was absolutely 
plain to her, except that it was now early morning, and 
that, whatever might happen next, it was proper, first 
of all, to get up and say her prayers. She was the more 
inclined to devotion, from the grim aspect of the cham- 
ber and its furniture, especially the tall, stiff chairs ; one 
of which stood close by her bedside, and looked as if 
some old-fashioned personage had been sitting there all 
night, and had vanished only just in season to escape 
discovery. 

When Phoebe was quite dressed, she peeped out of 
the window, and saw a rose-bush in the garden. Being 
a very tall one, and of luxurious growth, it had been 
propped up against the side of the house, and was liter- 
ally covered with a rare and very beautiful species of 
white rose. A large portion of them, as the girl after- 
ward discovered, had blight or mildew at their hearts ; 
but, viewed at a fair distance, the whole rose-bush 
looked as if it had been brought from Eden that very 
summer, together with the mold in which it grew. The 
truth was, nevertheless, that it had been planted by 
Alice Pyncheon, — she was Phoebe's great-great-grand- 
aunt, — in soil which, reckoning only its cultivation as 
a garden-plat, was now unctuous with nearly two hun- 
dred years of vegetable decay. Growing as they did, 
however, out of the old earth, the flowers still sent a 
fresh and sweet incense up to their Creator ; nor could 



STUDIES IN CHARACTER. 371 

it have been the less pure and acceptable because 
Phoebe's young breath mingled with it as the fragrance 
floated past the window. Hastening down the creaking 
and carpetless staircase, she found her way into the 
garden, gathered some of the most perfect of the roses, 
and brought them to her chamber. 

Little Phoebe was one of those persons who possess, 
as their exclusive patrimony, the gift of practical arrange- 
ment. It is a kind of natural magic that enables these 
favored ones to bring out the hidden capabilities of 
things around them ; and particularly to give a look of 
comfort and habitableness to any place which, for how- 
ever brief a period, may happen to be their home. A 
wild hut of underbrush, tossed together by wayfarers 
through the primitive forest, would acquire the home 
aspect by one night's lodging of such a woman, and 
would retain it long after her quiet figure had disap- 
peared into the surrounding shade. No less a portion 
of such homely witchcraft was requisite, to reclaim, as 
it were, Phoebe's waste, cheerless, and dusky chamber, 
which had been untenanted so long — except by spiders, 
and mice, and rats, and ghosts — that it was all over- 
grown with the desolation which watches to obliterate 
every trace of man's happier hours. What was pre- 
cisely Phoebe's process, we find it impossible to say. 
She appeared to have no preliminary design, but gave 
a touch here, and another there ; brought some articles 
of furniture to light, and dragged others into the shadow ; 
looped up or let down a window-curtain ; and, in the 
course of half an hour, had fully succeeded in throwing 
a kindly and hospitable smile over the apartment. No 
longer ago than the night before, it had resembled noth- 



372 SELECTIONS. 

ing so much as the old maid's heart ; for there was 
neither sunshine nor household fire in one nor the other, 
and, save for ghosts and ghostly reminiscences, not a 
guest, for many years gone by, had entered the heart or 
the chamber. 

There was still another peculiarity of this inscrutable 
charm. The bed-chamber, no doubt, was a chamber of 
very great and varied experience, as a scene of human 
life : the joy of bridal nights had throbbed itself away 
here ; new immortals had first drawn earthly breath 
here; and here old people had died. But — whether 
it were the white roses, or whatever the subtle influence 
might be — a person of delicate instinct would have 
known, at once, that it was now a maiden's bed-cham- 
ber, and had been purified of all former evil and sorrow 
by her sweet breath and happy thoughts. Her dreams 
of the past night, being such cheerful ones, had exorcised 
the gloom, and now haunted the chamber in its stead. 



MARTIN LUTHER. 

DR. WILLIAM ROBERTSON. 
From the "History of Charles V." 

While appearances of danger daily increased, and the 
tempest which had been so long a-gathering was ready 
to break forth in all its violence against the Protestant 
church, Luthur was saved, by a seasonable death, from 
feeling or beholding its destructive rage. Having gone, 
though in a declining state of health, and during a rigor- 
ous season, to his native city of Eysleben, in order to 
compose, by his authority, a dissension among the counts 



STUDIES IN CHARACTER. 616 

of Mansfield, he was seized with a violent inflammation 
in his stomach, which in a few days put an end to his 
life, in the sixty-third year of his age. As he was raised 
up by Providence to be the author of one of the greatest 
and most interesting revolutions recorded in history. 
there is not any person, perhaps, whose character has 
Deen drawn with such opposite colors. In his own age, 
one party, struck with horror and inflamed with rage. 
when they saw with what a daring hand he overturned 
everything which they held to be sacred, or valued 
as beneficial, imputed to him not only ail the defects and 
vices of a man. but the qualities of a demon. The other, 
warmed with the admiration and gratitude which they 
thought he merited as the restorer of light and liberty to 
the Christian Church, ascribed to him perfections above 
the condition of humanity, and viewed all his actions 
with a veneration bordering on that which should be 
paid only to those who are guided by the immediate 
inspiration of Heaven. It is his own conduct, not the 
undistinguishing censure or the exaggerated praise of 
his contemporaries, that ought to regulate the opinions 
of the present -age concerning him. Zeal for what he 
regarded as truth, undaunted intrepidity to maintain his 
own system, abilities — both natural and acquired — to 
defend his principles, and unwearied industry in propa- 
gating them, are virtues which shine so conspicuously in 
every part of his behavior, that even his enemies must 
allow him to have possessed them in an eminent degree. 
To these may be added, with equal justice, such purity 
and even austerity of manners as became one who 
assumed the character of a reformer ; such sanctity of 
life as suited the doctrine which he delivered ; and such 



374 SELECTIONS. 

perfect disinterestedness as affords no slight presumption 
of his sincerity. Superior to all selfish considerations, a 
stranger to the elegancies of life, and despising its pleas- 
ures, he left the honors and emoluments of the church 
to his disciples, remaining satisfied himself in his original 
state of professor in the university, and pastor of the 
town of Wittemberg, with the moderate appointments 
annexed to these offices. His extraordinary qualities 
were alloyed with no inconsiderable mixture of human 
frailty and human passions. These, however, were of 
such a nature, that they cannot be. imputed to malevo- 
lence or corruption of heart, but seem to have taken 
their rise from the same source with many of his virtues. 
His mind, forcible and vehement in all its operations, 
roused by great objects, or agitated by violent passions, 
broke out — on many occasions — with an impetuosity 
which astonishes men of feebler spirits, or such as are 
placed in a more tranquil situation. By carrying some 
praiseworthy dispositions to excess, he bordered some- 
times on what was culpable, and was often betrayed into 
actions which exposed him to censure. His confidence 
that his own opinions were well founded, approached 
to arrogance ; his courage in asserting them, to rashness ; 
his firmness in adhering to them, to obstinacy. 



CHARACTER OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 

DR. WILLIAM ROBERTSON. 

To all the charms of beauty and the utmost elegance 
of external form, she added those accomplishments 
which render their impression irresistible ; polite, 



STUDIES IN CHARACTER. 375 

affable, insinuating, sprightly, and capable of speaking 
and of writing with equal ease and dignity ; sudden, 
however, and violent in all her attachments, because 
her heart was warm and unsuspicious ; impatient of 
contradiction, because she had been accustomed from 
her infancy to be treated as a queen ; no stranger, on 
some occasions, to dissimulation, which, in that per- 
fidious court where she received her education, was 
reckoned among the necessary arts of government ; 
not insensible of flattery, or unconscious of that pleasure 
with which almost every woman beholds the influence 
of her own beauty. Formed with the qualities which 
we love, not with the talents that we admire, she was 
an agreeable woman rather than an illustrious queen. 
The vivacity of her spirit, not sufficiently tempered with 
sound judgment, and the warmth of her heart, which 
was not at all times under the restraint of discretion, 
betrayed her both into errors and into crimes. To say 
that she was always unfortunate will not account for 
that long and almost uninterrupted succession of calami- 
ties which befell her : we must likewise add that she 
was often imprudent. Her passion for Darnley was 
rash, youthful, and excessive. And though the sudden 
transition to the opposite extreme was the natural effect 
of her ill-requited love, and of his ingratitude, insolence, 
and brutality, yet neither of these nor Bothwell's artful 
address and important services can justify her attach- 
ment to that nobleman. Even the manners of the age, 
licentious as they were, are no apology for this unhappy 
passion ; nor can they induce us to look on that tragical 
and infamous scene which followed upon it with less 
abhorrence. Humanity will draw a veil over this part 



376 SELECTIONS. 

of her character which it cannot approve, and may, 
perhaps, prompt some to impute her actions to her 
situation more than to her dispositions, and to lament 
the unhappiness of the former rather than accuse the 
perverseness of the latter. Mary's sufferings exceed, 
both in degree and in duration, those tragical distresses 
which fancy has feigned to excite sorrow and com- 
miseration : and while we survey them, we are apt 
altogether to forget her frailties ; we think of her faults 
with less indignation, and approve of our tears as if they 
were shed for a person who had attained much nearer 
to purer virtue. 



VICTORY THROUGH SUFFERING. 

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 

In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's 

waters, 
Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle, 
Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. 
There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty, 
And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest, 
As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they 

molested. 
There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile, 
Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country. 
There old Rene Leblanc had died ; and when he departed, 
Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants. 
Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the city, — 
Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a 

stranger ; 
And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers ; 
For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, 
Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters. 



STUDIES IN CHARACTER. 377 

So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor, 
Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining, 
Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her 

footsteps. 
As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning 
Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us, 
Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets, 
So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her, 
Dark no longer, but all illumined with love ; and the pathway 
Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the 

distance. 
Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image, 
Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him, 
Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence. 
Into her thoughts of him time entered not. for it was not. 
Over him years had no power ; he was not changed, but trans- 
figured ; 
He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent ; 
Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others, — 
This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. 
So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices, 
Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. 
Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow 
Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Savior. 
Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy ; frequenting 
Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city, 
Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight, 
Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected. 
Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman 

repeated 
Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city, 
High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper. 
Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the 

suburbs 
Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the 

market, 
Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings. 



378 SELECTIONS. 

Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city, 
Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pig- 
eons, 
Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but 

an acorn. 
And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September, 
Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the 

meadow, 
So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin, 
Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence. 
Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the 

oppressor ; 
But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger ; — 
Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants, 
Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless. 
Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and wood- 
lands : 
Now the city surrounds it ; but still, with its gateway and wicket 
Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo 
Softly the words of the Lord : — " The poor ye always have with 

you." 
Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The 

dying 
Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there 
Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor, 
Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles, 
Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance. 
Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial, 
Into whose shining gates erelong their spirits would enter. 



Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and 
silent, 
Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse. 
Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the garden ; 
And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them, 
That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and 
beauty. 



STUDIES IN CHARACTER. 379 

Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the 

east wind, 
Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of 

Christ Church, 
While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted 
Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church 

at Wicaco. 
Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit ; 
Something within her said, ' ' At length thy trials are ended ; " 
And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness. 
Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants, 
Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence 
Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces, 
Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the road- 
side. 
Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered, 
Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed ; for her 

presence 
Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison. 
And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler, 
Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever. 
Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night time ; 
Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers. 
Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, 
Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder 
Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped 

from her fingers, 
And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning. 
Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish, 
That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. 
On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man. 
Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples ; 
But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment 
Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood ; 
So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying. 
Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever, 
As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals, 



380 SELECTIONS. 

That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over. 
Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted 
Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the 

darkness, — 
Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking; 
Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations, 
Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded 
Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, 
" Gabriel ! O my beloved ! " and died away into silence. 
Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood ; 
Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, 
Village, and mountain, and woodlands ; and, walking under their 

shadow, 
As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. 
Tears came into his eyes, and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, 
Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. 
Vainly he strove to whisper her name ; for the accents unuttered 
Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would 

have spoken. 
Vainly he strove to rise ; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him, 
Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. 
Sweet was the light of his eyes ; but it suddenly sank into 

darkness, 
As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. 

All was ended now, — the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow ; 
All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing ; 
All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience. 
And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, 
Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, " Father, I thank 
thee ! " 



STUDIES IN CHARACTER. 381 



MEN OF GENIUS. 



THOMAS CARLYLE. 



Among these men are to be found the brightest 
specimens and the chief benefactors of mankind. It is 
they that keep awake the finer parts of our souls ; that 
give us better aims than power or pleasure, and with- 
stand the total sovereignty of mammon in this earth. 
They are the vanguard in the march of mind, — the 
intellectual backwoodsmen, reclaiming from the idle 
wilderness new territories for the thought and the activity 
of their happier brethren. Pity that, from all their con- 
quests, so rich in benefit to others, themselves should 
reap so little ! But it is vain to murmur. They are vol- 
unteers in this cause ; they weighed the charms of it 
against the perils ; and they must abide the results of 
their decision, as all must, The hardships of the course 
they follow are formidable, but not all inevitable ; and 
to such as pursue it rightly, it is not without its great 
rewards. If an author's life is more agitated and more 
painful than that of others, it may also be made more 
spirit-stirring and exalted. Fortune may render him un- 
happy ; it is only himself that can make him despicable. 
The history of genius has, in fact, its bright side as well 
as its dark. And if it is distressing to survey the misery — 
and what is worse, the debasement — of so many gifted 
men, it is doubly cheering, on the other hand, to reflect 
on the few, who, amid the temptations and sorrows to 
which life in all its provinces, and most in theirs, is lia- 
ble, have traveled through it in calm and virtuous maj- 
esty, and are now hallowed in our memories not less for 



382 SELECTIONS. 

their conduct than [for] their writings. Such men are 
the flower of this lower world : to such alone can the 
epithet of great be applied with its true emphasis. 
There is a congruity in their proceedings which one loves 
to contemplate : he who would write heroic poems, 
should make his whole life a heroic poem. 



MEN OF REAL GENIUS ARE RESOLUTE WORKERS. 

GEORGE HENRY LEWES. 

There is, in the present day, an overplus of raving 
about genius and its prescriptive rights of vagabondage, 
its irresponsibility, and its insubordination to all the laws 
of common sense. Common sense is so prosaic ! Yet 
it appears from the history of art that the men of real 
genius did not rave about anything of the kind. They 
were resolute workers, not idle dreamers. They knew 
that their genius was not a frenzy, not a supernatural 
thing at all, but simply the colossal proportions of fac- 
ulties which, in a lesser degree, the meanest of mankind 
share with them. They knew that whatever it was, it 
would not enable them to accomplish with success the 
things they undertook, unless they devoted their whole 
energies to the task. 

Would Michael Angelo have built St. Peter's, sculp- 
tured the Moses, and made the walls of the Vatican 
sacred with the presence of his gigantic pencil, had he 
awaited inspiration while his works were in progress ? 
Would Rubens have dazzled all the galleries of Europe, 
had he allowed his brush to hesitate ? would Beetho- 
ven and Mozart have poured their souls into such abun- 



STUDIES IN CHARACTER. 383 

dant melodies ? would Goethe have written the sixty 
volumes of his works — had they not often, very often, 
sat down like drudges to an unwilling task, and found 
themselves speedily engrossed with that to which they 
were so averse ? 

"Use the pen," says the thoughtful and subtle 
author : there is no magic in it ; but it keeps the mind 
from staggering about." This is an aphorism which 
should be printed in letters of gold over the studio door 
of every artist. Use the pen or the brush ; do not 
pause, do not trifle, have no misgivings ; but keep your 
mind from staggering about by fixing it resolutely on the 
matter before you, and then all that you can do you will 
do ; inspiration will not enable you to do more. Write 
or paint : act, do not hesitate. If what you have 
written or painted should turn out imperfect, you can 
correct it, and the correction will be more efficient than 
that correction which takes place in the shifting thoughts 
of hesitation. You will learn from your failures infinitely 
more than from the vague wandering reflections of a 
mind loosened from its moorings ; because the failure is 
absolute, it is precise, it stands boldly before you, your 
eyes and judgment cannot be juggled with, you know 
whether a certain verse is harmonious, whether the 
rime is there or not there ; but in the other case you 
not only can juggle with yourself, but do so, the very 
indeterminateness of your thoughts makes you do so ; as 
long as the idea is not positively clothed in its artistic 
form, it is impossible to say accurately what it will be. 
The magic of the pen lies in the concentration of your 
thoughts upon one subject. Let your pen fall, begin to 
trifle with blotting-paper, look at the ceiling, bite your 



384: SELECTIONS. 

nails, and otherwise dally with your purpose, and you 
waste your time, scatter your thoughts, and repress the 
nervous energy necessary for your task. Some men 
dally and dally, hesitate and trifle, until the last possible 
moment, and when the printer's boy is knocking at the 
door, they begin : necessity goading them, they write 
with singular rapidity, and with singular success ; they 
are astonished at themselves. What is the secret ? 
Simply this, — they have had no time to hesitate. Con- 
centrating their powers upon the one object before them, 
they have done what they could do. 

Impatient reader ! if I am tedious, forgive me. 
These lines may meet the eyes of some to whom they 
are especially addressed, and may awaken thoughts in 
their minds not unimportant to their future career. 
Forgive me, if only because I have taken what is called 
the prosaic side. I have not flattered the shallow 
sophisms which would give a gloss to idleness and inca- 
pacity. I have not availed myself of the splendid 
tirades, so easy to write, about the glorious privileges 
of genius. My ''preaching" may be very ineffectual, 
but at any rate it advocates the honest dignity of labor: 
let my cause excuse my tediousness. 



HUMBLE WORTH 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



The pastor, pressed by thoughts which round his 
theme 
Still lingered, after a brief pause, resumed ; 
Noise is there not enough in doleful war, 
But that the heaven-born poet must stand forth, 



STUDIES IN CHARACTER. 385 

And lend the echoes of his sacred shell, 

To multiply and aggravate the din ? 

Pangs are there not enough in hopeless love — 

And, in requited passion, all too much 

Of turbulence, anxiety, and fear — 

But that the minstrel of the rural shade 

Must tune his pipe, insidiously to nurse 

The perturbation in the suffering breast, 

And propagate its kind, far as he may ? 

Ah who (and with such rapture as befits 

The hallowed theme) will rise and celebrate 

The good man's purposes and deeds ; retrace 

His struggles, his discomfitures deplore, 

His triumphs hail, and glorify his end ; 

That virtue, like the fumes and vapory clouds 

Through fancy's heat redounding in the brain, 

And like the soft infections of the heart, 

By charm of measured words may spread o'er field, 

Hamlet, and town ; and piety survive 

Upon the lips of men in hall or bower ; 

Not for reproof, but high and warm delight, 

And grave encouragement, by song inspired ? 

Vain thought ! but wherefore murmur or repine ? 

The memory of the just survives in heaven : 

And, without sorrow, will the ground receive 

That venerable clay. Meanwhile the best 

Of what lies here confines us to degrees 

In excellence less difficult to reach, 

And milder worth : nor need we travel far 

From those to whom our last regards were paid, 

For such example. 

Almost at the root 
Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare 
And slender stem, while here I sit at eve, 
Oft stretches toward me, like a long, straight path 
Traced faintly in the greensward ; there, beneath 
A plain blue stone, a gentle dalesman lies, 
From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn 

25 



386 SELECTIONS. 

The precious gift of hearing. He grew up 

From year to year in loneliness of soul ; 

And this deep mountain-valley was to him 

Soundless, with all its streams. The bird of dawn 

Did never rouse this cottager from sleep 

With startling summons ; not for his delight 

The vernal cuckoo shouted ; not for him 

Murmured the laboring bee. When winds 

Were working the broad bosom of the lake 

Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves, 

Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud 

Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags, 

The agitated scene before his eye 

Was silent as a picture : evermore 

Were all things silent, wheresoe'er he moved. 

Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts 

Upheld, he duteously pursued the round 

Of rural labors ; the steep mountainside 

Ascended, with his staff and faithful dog ; 

The plow he guided, and the scythe he swayed ; 

And the ripe corn before his sickle fell 

Among the jocund reapers. For himself — 

All watchful and industrious as he was — 

He wrought not ; neither field nor flock he owned ; 

No wish for wealth had place within his mind, — 

Nor husband's love, nor father's hope or care. 

Though born a younger brother, need was none 

That from the floor of his paternal home 

He should depart, to plant himself anew. 

And when, mature in manhood, he beheld 

His parents laid in earth, no loss ensued 

Of rights to him ; but he remained well pleased, 

By the pure bend of independent love, 

An inmate of a second family, — 

The fellow laborer and friend of him 

To whom the small inheritance had fallen. 

Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight 

That pressed upon his brother's house ; for books 



STUDIES IN CHARACTER. 38? 

Were ready comrades whom he could not tire ; 

Of whose society the blameless man 

Was never satiate. Their familiar voice. 

Even to old age, with unabated charm 

Beguiled his leisure hours ; refreshed his thoughts ; 

Beyond its natural elevation raised 

His introverted spirit ; and bestowed 

Upon his life an outward dignity 

Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night, 

The stormy day, each had its own resource ; 

Song of the muses, sage historic tale, 

Science severe, or word of Holy Writ 

Announcing immortality and joy 

To the assembled spirits of just men 

Made perfect, and from injury secure. 

Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field 

To no perverse suspicion he gave way, 

No languor, peevishness, nor vain complaint. 

And they who were about him did not fail 

In reverence, or in courtesy ; they prized 

His gentle manners : and his peaceful smiles, — 

The gleams of his slow-varying countenance, — 

Were met with answering sympathy and love. 

At length, when sixty years and five were told, 
A slow disease insensibly consumed 
The powers of nature : and a few short steps 
Of friends and kindred bore him from his home 
(Yon cottage shaded by the woody crags) 
To the profounder stillness of the grave. 
Nor was his funeral denied the grace 
Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful grief, — 
Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by gratitude. 
And now that monumental stone preserves 
His name, and unambitiously relates 
How long, and by what kindly outward aids. 
And in what pure contentedness of mind. 



388 SELECTIONS. 

The sad privation was by him endured. 

And yon tall pine-tree, whose composing sound 

Was wasted on the good man's living ear, 

Hath now its own peculiar sanctity ; 

And, at the touch of every wandering breeze, 

Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave. 



Soul-cheering light, most bountiful of things ! 
Guide of our way, mysterious comforter ! 
Whose sacred influence, spread through earth'and heaven, 
We all too thanklessly participate, 
Thy gifts were utterly withheld from him 
Whose place of rest is near yon ivied porch. 
Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he complained ; 
Ask of the channeled rivers if they held 
A safer, easier, more determined course. 
What terror doth it strike into the mind 
To think of one, blind and alone, advancing 
Straight toward some precipice's airy brink. 
But, timely warned, he would have stayed his steps, 
Protected, say enlightened, by his ear; 
And on the very edge of vacancy 
Not more endangered than a man whose eye 
Beholds the gulf beneath. No floweret blooms 
Throughout the lofty range of these rough hills, 
Nor in the woods, that could from him conceal 
Its birthplace ; none whose figure did not live 
Upon his touch. The bowels of the earth 
Enriched with knowledge his industrious mind ; 
The ocean paid him tribute from the stores 
Lodged in her bosom ; and, by science led, 
His genius mounted to the plains of heaven. 
Methinks I see him, — how his eyeballs rolled, 
Beneath his ample brow, in darkness paired ; 
But each instinct with spirit ; and the frame 
Of the whole countenance alive with thought, 
Fancy, and understanding ; while the voice 



STUDIES IN CHARACTER. 389 

Discoursed of natural or moral truth 
With eloquence, and such authentic power 
That, in his presence, humbler knowledge stood 
Abashed, and tender pity overawed. 



SOCIAL RELATIONS. 

LILIAN WHITING. 
From "The World Beautiful." 

To leave undone those things which we ought to do, 
to leave unspoken the word of recognition or apprecia- 
tion that we should have said, is perhaps as positive a 
wrong as it is to do the thing we should not have done. 

We talk of success as an aim of life ; but what better 
form can it take than that of easy and sympathetic 
relation with every one with whom we have to do ? 
Social relations are not the mere amusements or even 
enjoyments of life, but are an integral part of its 
conduct. 

# -X- "Jf , 7T -X- 

There is a vast amount, however, of sufficiently 
agreeable and amiable social intercourse which passes 
current for friendship, that has in it no staying power, 
that is not under any intelligent or controlled direction, 
but is at the chance of every tide and impulse, or of 
popular sentiment. This amiable mutual intercourse 
may exist for years, — for half a lifetime or more, — flow- 
ing on smoothly, and its undisturbed shallowness may be 
mistaken for depth, until some vital impulse enters into 
the life of one, and then the depth of this amiable under- 
standing is suddenly tested. Whether it is genuine or 
not is swiftly revealed. The test sooner or later comes 



390 SELECTIONS. 

into every life. . . . Every professed and alleged 
feeling must sometime be " winnowed through and 
through." It must survive the fire or be melted away 
with the refuse. 



EXTRACTS FROM "THE WORLD BEAUTIFUL." 

LILIAN WHITING. 

Happiness is a condition attained through worthiness. 
To find your life, you must lose it. It is the law and the 
prophets. One's personal enjoyment is a very small 
thing ; one's personal usefulness is a very important 
one. In one way or another the Lord bids us all to fly, 
and we have need to trust him for the wings, and live in 
that intimate and close relation to him that alone can 
receive the divine guidance. 



The one great truth to which we all need to come is, 
that a successful life lies not in doing this, or going there, 
or possessing something else : it lies in the quality of the 
daily life. 



Everything is possible to courtesy and to love. They 
are spiritually expansive, and like the miracle of the 
loaves and the fishes, the more they are given, the more 
they increase ; the more they are divided, the more they 
are multiplied. 



The earnest and sympathetic student of human 
nature will find more of the divine in each and every 
one than, on mere superficial knowledge, he would have 



STUDIES IN CHARACTER. 391 

believed. Humanity is not worse, but rather better, 
than it is invariably held to be. 



To hold one's self in readiness for opportunity ; to 
keep the serene, confident, hopeful, and joyful energy of 
mind, — is to magnetize it, and draw privileges and power 
toward one. The concern is not as to whether oppor- 
tunity will present itself, but as to whether one will be 
ready for the opportunity. It comes not to doubt, and 
denial, and disbelief. It comes to sunny expectation, 
eager purpose, and to noble and generous aspirations. 



Unfailing thoughtfulness of others in all those trifles 
that make up daily contact in daily life, sweetness of 
spirit, the exhilaration of gladness and of joy, and that 
exaltation of feeling which is the inevitable result of 
mental peace and loving thought,- — these make up the 
"World Beautiful," in which each one may live as in an 
atmosphere always attending His presence. 



HOW TO TAKE LIFE. 

PAUL L. DUNBAR. 

A song is but a little thing, 
And yet what joy it is to sing ! 
In hours of toil it gives me zest, 
And when at eve I long for rest ; 
When cows come home along the bars, 

And in the fold I hear the bell, 
As Night, the shepherd, herds his stars, 

I sing my song, and all is well. 



392 SELECTIONS. 

There are no ears to hear my lays, 
No lips to lift a word of praise, 
But still, with faith unfaltering, 
I live, and laugh, and love, and sing ; 
What matters yon unheeding throng, 

That cannot feel my spirit's spell ? 
Since life is sweet, and love is long, 

I sing my song, and all is well. 

My days are never days of ease ; 

I till my ground, and prune my trees. 

When ripened gold is all the plain, 

I put my sickle to the grain. 

I labor hard, and toil, and sweat, 

While others dream within the dell 
But even while my brow is wet, 

I sing my song, and all is well. 

Sometimes the sun, unkindly hot, 
My garden makes a desert spot ; 
Sometimes a blight upon the tree 
Takes all my fruit away from me ; 
And then, with throes of bitter pain, 

Rebellious passions rise and swell ; 
But life is more than fruit or grain, 

And so I sing, and all is well. 



CHAPTER SIX 



Descriptive and Narrative. 

A BATTLE OF ANTS. 

HENRY DAVID THOREAU. 

One day when I went out to my wood-pile or rather 
my pile of stumps, I observed two large ants — the one 
red, the other much larger, nearly half an inch long, 
and black — fiercely contending with each other. Hav- 
ing once got hold, they never let go, but struggled and 
wrestled and rolled on the chips incessantly. Looking 
farther, I was surprised to find that the chips were cov- 
ered with such combatants, that it was not a diielliim, 
but a bellum, — a war between two races of ants, — the 
red always pitted against the black, and frequently two 
red ones to one black. The legions of these Myrmidons 
covered all the hills and vales in my wood-yard, and the 
ground was already strewn with the dead and dying, 
both red and black. It was the only battle which I 
have ever witnessed, the only battle-field I ever trod 
while the battle was raging ; internecine war ; the red 
republicans on the one hand, and the black imperialists 
on the other. On every side they were engaged in 
deadly combat, yet without any noise I could hear ; and 
human soldiers never fought so resolutely. I watched a 
couple that were fast locked in each other's embraces, 
in a little sunny valley amid the chips, now at noonday 

[393] 



394 SELECTIONS. 

prepared to fight till the sun went down, or life went 
out. The smaller red champion had fastened himself 
like a vice to his adversary's front, and through all the 
tumblings on that field never for an instant ceased to 
gnaw at one of his feelers near the root, having already 
caused the other to go by the board ; while the stronger 
black one dashed him from side to side, and, as I saw 
on looking nearer, had already divested him of several 
of his members. They fought with more pertinacity 
than bull-dogs. Neither manifested the least disposi- 
tion to retreat. It was evident that their battle-cry was 
— "Conquer or die." In the meanwhile, there came 
along a single red ant on the hillside of this valley, evi- 
dently full of excitement, who either had despatched his 
foe, or had not yet taken part in the battle, — probably 
the latter, for he had lost none of his limbs, — whose 
mother had charged him to return with his shield or 
upon it. Or perchance he was some Achilles, who had 
nourished his wrath apart, and had now come to avenge 
or rescue his Patroclus. He saw this unequal combat 
from afar, — for the blacks were nearly twice the size of 
the red, — drew near with rapid pace till he stood on 
his guard within half an inch of the combatants ; then, 
watching his opportunity, he sprang upon the black war- 
rior, and commenced his operations near the root of his 
right fore-leg, leaving the foe to select among his own 
members ; and so there were three united for life, as if 
a new kind of attraction had been invented which put 
all other locks and cements to shame. I should not 
have wondered by this time to find that they had their 
respective musical bands stationed on some eminent 
chip, and playing their national airs the while, to excite 
the slow and cheer the dying combatants. I was myself 



DESCRIPTIVE AND NARRATIVE. 395 

excited somewhat, even as if they had been men. The 
more you think of it, the less the difference. 

I took up the chip on which the three I have par- 
ticular!}' described were struggling, carried it into my 
house, and placed it under a tumbler on my window-sill, 
in order to see the issue. Holding a microscope to the 
first-mentioned red ant, I saw that, though he was 
assiduously gnawing at the near fore-leg of his enemy, 
having severed his remaining feeler, his own breast was 
all torn away, exposing what vitals he had there to 
the jaws of the black warrior, whose breast-plate was 
apparently too thick for him to pierce ; and the dark 
carbuncles of the sufferer's eyes shone with ferocity, 
such as war only could excite. They struggled half an 
hour longer under the tumbler, and when I looked again, 
the black soldier had severed the heads of his foes from 
their bodies, and the still living heads were hanging on 
either side of him like ghastly trophies at his saddle-bow, 
still apparently as firmly fastened as ever, and he was 
endeavoring with feeble struggles, being without feelers 
and with only the remnant of a leg, and I know not how 
many other wounds, to divest himself of them ; which 
at length, after half an hour more, he accomplished. 
I raised the glass, and he went off over the window-sill 
in that crippled state. Whether he finally survived that 
combat, and spent the remainder of his days in some 
Hotel des Invahdes, I do not know ; but I thought that 
his industry would not be worth much thereafter. I 
never learned which party was victorious, nor the cause 
of the war ; but I felt for the rest of that day as if I had 
had my feelings excited and harrowed by witnessing the 
struggle, the ferocity and carnage, of a human battle 
before my door. 



396 SELECTIONS. 

THE THREE CHILDREN AT PLAY. 

ALFRED TENNYSON. 

Long lines of cliff, breaking, have left a chasm 
And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands ; 
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf 
In cluster ; then a moldered church ; and higher 
A long street climbs to one tall-towered mill ; 
And high in heaven, behind it, a gray down, 
With Danish barrows ; and a hazel-wood, 
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes 
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. 



Here, on this beach, a hundred years ago, 
Three children of three houses, — Annie Lee, 
The prettiest little damsel in the port ; 
And Philip Ray, the miller's only son ; 
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad, 
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, played 
Among the waste and lumber of the shore, — 
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets, 
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn ; 
And built their castles of dissolving sand 
To watch them overflowed, or following up 
And flying the white breaker, daily left 
The little footprint, daily washed away. 



ARDEN ON THE ISLAND. 

ALFRED TENNYSON. 

Half the night, 
Buoyed upon floating tackle and broken spars, 
These drifted, stranding on an isle — at morn 
Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND NARRATIVE. 397 

No want was there of human sustenance, — 
Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots ; 
Nor, save for pity, was it hard to take 
The helpless life, so wild that it was tame. 
There, in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge, 
They built, and thatched with leaves of palm, a hut, — 
Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, 
Set in this Eden of all plenteousness, 
Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. 

For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy r , 
Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck, 
Lay lingering out a three-years' death-in-life. 
They could not leave him. After he was gone, 
The two remaining found a fallen stem ; 
And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself, 
Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell 
Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. 
In those two deaths he read God's warning " wait„" 

The mountain, wooded to the peak ; the lawns 
And winding glades, high up like ways to heaven ; 
The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes ; 
The lightning flash of insect and of bird ; 
The luster of the long convolvuluses, 
That coiled around the stately stems, and ran 
Even to the limit of the land ; the glows 
And glories of the broad belt of the world, — 
All these he saw : but what he fain had seen 
He could not see, — a kindly human face, — 
Nor ever heard a kindly voice ; but heard 
The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, 
The league-long roller thundering on the reef, 
The moving whisper of huge trees, that branched 
And blossomed in the zenith, or the sweep 
Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, 
As down the shore he ranged, or all day long 



398 SELECTIONS. 

Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 

A shipwrecked sailor, waiting for a sail : 

No sail from day to day, but every day 

The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 

Among the palms and ferns and precipices ; 

The blaze upon the waters to the east ; — 

The blaze upon his island overhead ; — 

The blaze upon the waters to the west : 

Then the great stars, that globed themselves in heave:: 

The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again 

The scarlet shafts of sunrise ; — but no sail. 

There, often as he watched, or seeemd to watch, 
So still the golden lizard on him paused, 
A phantom made of many phantoms moved 
Before him, haunting him ; or he himself 
Moved, haunting people, things, and places, known 
Far in a darker isle beyond the line ; — 
The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house, 
The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes, 
The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall, 
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill 
November dawns and dewy-glooming downs, 
The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, 
And the low moan of leaden-colored seas. 

Once, likewise, in the ringing of his ears, 
Though faintly, merrily — far and far away — 
He heard the pealing of his parish bells ; 
Then, though he knew not wherefore, started up 
Shuddering, and when the beauteous, hateful isle 
Returned upon him, had not his poor heart 
Spoken with That, which, being everywhere, 
Lets none who speak with Him seem all alone, 
Surely the man had died of solitude. 

Thus, over Enoch's early-silvering head, 
The sunny and rainy seasons came and went — 
Year after year. His hopes to see his own. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND NARRATIVE. 399 

And pace the sacred old familiar fields, 

Not yet had perished, when his lonely doom 

Came suddenly to an end. Another ship 

(She wanted water) blown by baffling winds, 

Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course, 

Stayed by this isle, not knowing where she lay ; 

For since the mate had seen at early dawn, 

Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle, 

The silent water slipping from the hills, 

They sent a crew, that, landing, burst away 

In search of stream or fount, and filled the shores 

With clamor. Downward from his mountain-gorge 

Stepped the long-haired, long-bearded solitary, — 

Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad, 

Muttering and mumbling, idiot-like it seemed, 

With inarticulate rage, and making signs 

They knew not what : and yet he led the way 

To where the rivulets of sweet water ran ; 

And ever, as he mingled with the crew, 

And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue 

Was loosened, till he made them understand ; 

Whom, when their casks were filled, they took aboard . 

And there the tale he uttered brokenly, 

Scarce credited at first, but more and more 

Amazed and melted all who listened to it : 

And clothes they gave him, and free passage home : 

But oft he worked among the rest, and shook 

His isolation from him. 



THE FUNERAL OF A BELOVED TEACHER. 

HANNAH MORE. 

Who else has ever been so attended, so followed to 
the grave ? Of the hundreds who attended, all had 
some token of mourning in their dress. All the black 
gowns in the village were exhibited ; and those who had 



400 SELECTIONS. 

none, had — some broad, some little bits of narrow — 
ribbon, such as their few spare pence could provide. 
The house, the garden, the place before the door, was 
full. But how shall I describe it ? Not one single voice 
or step was heard ; their very silence was dreadful. But 
it was not the least affecting part to see their poor little 
ragged pocket-handkerchiefs, not half sufficient to dry 
their tears. Some had none ; and the tears that did 
not fall to the ground they wiped off with some part of 
their dress. When the procession moved off, Mr. Boake, 
who was so good as to come to the very house, preceded 
the corpse with his ^own and hat-band, which, being 
unusual, added somewhat to the scene ; then the body, 
then her sister and myself as chief mourners, — a pre- 
sumptuous title amid such a weeping multitude ; then 
the gentry, two and two ; next her children, near two 
hundred ; then all the parish in the same order ; — and 
though the stones were rugged, you did not hear one 
single footstep. 

When we came to the outer gate of the churchyard, 
where all the people used to wait to pay their duty to 
her by bows and courtesies, we were obliged to halt for 
Mr. Boake to get in and get his surplice on to receive 
the corpse with the usual texts. This was almost too 
much for every creature ; and Mr. Boake's voice was 
nearly lost. When he came to, "I know that my 
Redeemer liveth, " he could scarcely utter it ; but to feel 
it was a better thing. On her entrance into the church, 
the little remaining sight we had left, disclosed to us that 
it was nearly full. How we were to be disposed of I 
could not tell. I took my old seat with the children ; 
and [standing] close by her [accustomed] place, Mr. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND NARRATIVE. 401 

Boake gave us a discourse of thirty-five minutes, entirely 
on one subject. His text was from St. John. He said 
he chose it because it was the last she made use of to 
him (I was sitting on her bed at the time). He added : 
' ' She looked around her, and observed [that] it was 
comfortable to have kind friends, but much better to 
have God with one." His sermon was affecting and 
bold ; as a proof of the latter, though the vicar was 
there, and he himself was curate, he said, with an empha- 
sis in his voice and a firmness in his look, ' ' This eminent 
Christian first taught salvation in Cheddar." 

When we drove near to the grave, and the last 
solemn rite was performed, and "ashes to ashes, dust 
to dust " was pronounced, every lady threw in her 
nosegay. I was almost choked. When Robert Reeves, 
John Marshal, and the six favorites let down the coffin, 
they stood over it in an attitude never to be described, 
and exhibited a grief never to be forgotten. They 
feared at one time Mr. Gelling would have to be taken 
out of the church. The undertaker from Bristol wept 
like a child, and confessed that without emolument it 
was worth going a hundred miles to see such a sight. 



THE PANTHER. 

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 
From "The Pioneers." 

By this time they had gained the summit of the 
mountain, where they left the highway, and pursued 
their course under the shade of the stately trees that 
crowned the eminence. The day was becoming warm, 

26 



402 SELECTIONS. 

and the girls plunged more deeply into the forest, as 
they found its invigorating coolness agreeably contrasted 
to the excessive heat they had experienced in the ascent. 
The conversation, as if by mutual consent, was entirely 
changed to the little incidents and scenes of their walk ; 
and every tall pine, and every shrub or flower, called 
forth some simple expression of admiration. 

In this manner they proceeded along the margin of 
the precipice, catching occasional glimpses of the placid 
Otsego, or pausing to listen to the rattling of wheels and 
the sounds of hammers, that rose from the valley, to 
mingle the signs of men with the scenes of nature, when 
Elizabeth suddenly started, and exclaimed, — 

" Listen! there are the cries of a child on this 
mountain ! is there a clearing near us ? or can some 
little one have strayed from its parents?" 

''Such things frequently happen," returned Louisa. 
"Let us follow the sounds: it may be a wanderer, 
starving on the hill." 

Urged by this consideration, the females pursued the 
low, mournful sounds, that proceeded from the forest, 
with quick and impatient steps. More than once, the 
ardent Elizabeth was on the point of announcing that 
she saw the sufferer, when Louisa caught her by the 
arm, and pointing behind them, cried, — 

" Look at the dog ! " 

Brave had been their companion, from the time the 
voice of his young mistress lured him from his kennel, 
to the present moment. His advanced age had long 
before deprived him of his activity ; and when his 
companions stopped to view the scenery, or to add to 
their bouquets, the mastiff would lay his huge frame on 



DESCRIPTIVE AND NARRATIVE. -±03 

the ground, and await their movements, with his eyes 
closed, and a listlessness in his air that ill accorded with 
the character of a protector. But when, aroused by 
this cry from Louisa, Miss Temple turned, she saw the 
dog with his eyes keenly set on some distant object, his 
head bent near the ground, and his hair actually rising 
on his body, through fright or anger. It was most prob- 
ably the latter ; for he was growling in a low key, and 
occasionally showing his teeth, in a manner that would 
have terrified his mistress, had she not so well known 
his good qualities. 

'" Brave ! " she said, " be quiet, Brave ! what do you 
see, fellow ? " 

At the sounds of her voice, the rage of the mastiff, 
instead of being at all diminished, was very sensibly 
increased. He stalked in front of the ladies, and seated 
himself at the feet of his mistress, growling louder than 
before, and occasionally giving vent to his ire, by a 
short, surly barking. 

"What does he see ?" said Elizabeth : "there must 
be some animal in sight." 

Hearing no answer from her companion, Miss Tem- 
ple turned her head, and beheld Louisa, standing with 
her face whitened to the color of death, and her finger 
pointing upward, with a sort of flickering, convulsed 
motion. The quick eye of Elizabeth glanced in the 
direction indicated by her friend, where she saw the 
fierce front and glaring eyes of a female panther, fixed 
on them in horrid malignity, and threatening to leap. 



404 SELECTIONS. 

DEATH SCENE OF LITTLE EVA. 

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 

So bright and placid was the farewell voyage of the 
little spirit, — by such sweet and fragrant breezes was 
the small bark borne toward the heavenly shores, — that 
it was impossible to realize that it was death that was 
approaching. The child felt no pain, — only a tranquil, 
soft weakness, daily and almost insensibly increasing ; 
and she was so beautiful, so loving, so trustful, so happy, 
that one could not resist the soothing influence of that 
air of innocence and peace which seemed to breathe 
around her. St. Clare found a strange calm coming 
over him. It was not hope, — that was impossible ; it 
was not resignation ; it was only a calm resting in the 
present, which seemed so beautiful that he wished to 
think of no future. It was like that hush of spirit 
which we feel amid the bright, mild woods of autumn, 
when the bright hectic flush is on the trees, and the last 
lingering flowers by the brook ; and we joy in it all 
the more, because we know that soon it will all pass 
away. 



Eva had been unusually bright and cheerful, that 
afternoon, and had sat raised in her bed, and looked 
over all her little trinkets and precious things, and desig- 
nated the friends to whom she would have them given ; 
and her manner was more animated, and her voice more 
natural, than they had known it for weeks. Her father 
had been in, in the evening, and had said that Eva 
appeared more like her former self than ever she had 



DESCRIPTIVE AND NARRATIVE. 405 

done since her sickness ; and when he kissed her for the 
night, he said to Miss Ophelia, — " Cousin, we may keep 
her with us, after all ; she is certainly better ; " and he 
had retired with a lighter heart in his bosom than he 
had had there for weeks. 

But at midnight, — strange, mystic hour! — when 
the- veil between the frail present and the eternal future 
grows thin, — then came the messenger ! 

There was a sound in that chamber, first of one who 
stepped quickly. It was Miss Ophelia, who had resolved 
to sit up all night with her little charge, and who, at the 
turn of the night, had discerned what experienced nurses 
significantly call "a change." The outer door was 
quickly opened, and Tom, who was watching outside, 
was on the alert, in a moment. 

" Go for the doctor, Tom ! lose not a moment," said 
Miss Ophelia ; and, stepping across the room, she rapped 
at St. Clare's door. 

11 Cousin," she said, " I wish you would come." 

Those words fell on his heart like clods upon a coffin. 
Why did they ? He was up and in the room in an 
instant, and bending over Eva, who still slept. 

What was it he saw that made his heart stand still ? 
Why was no word spoken between the two ? Thou 
canst say, who hast seen that same expression on the 
face dearest to thee ; — that look indescribable, hopeless, 
unmistakable, that says to thee that thy beloved is no 
longer thine. 

On the face of the child, however, there was no 
ghastly imprint, — only a high and almost sublime 
expression, — the overshadowing presence of spiritual 
natures, the dawning of immortal life in that childish soul. 



406 SELECTIONS, 

They stood there so still, gazing upon her, that even 
the ticking of the watch seemed too loud. In a few 
moments, Tom returned, with the doctor. He entered, 
gave one look, and stood silent as the rest. 

''When did this change take place ?" said he, in a 
low whisper, to Miss Ophelia. 

"About the turn of the night," was the reply. 

Marie, roused by the entrance of the doctor, appeared, 
hurriedly, from the next room. 

' ' Augustine ! Cousin ! — O ! — what ! " she hurriedly 
began. 

" Hush ! " said St. Clare, hoarsely ; "she is dying." 

Mammy heard the words, and flew to awaken the 
servants. The house was soon roused, — lights were 
seen, footsteps heard, anxious faces thronged the veranda, 
and looked tearfully through the glass doors ; but St. 
Clare heard and said nothing ; — he saw only that look 
on the face of the little sleeper. 

" O, if she would only wake, and speak once 
more ! " he said ; and, stooping over her, he spoke in 
her ear, — " Eva, darling ! " 

The large blue eyes unclosed, — a smile passed over 
her face ; — she tried to raise her head, and to speak. 

" Do you know me, Eva ? " 

"Dear papa," said the child, with a last effort, 
throwing her arms about his neck. In a moment they 
dropped again, and, as St. Clare raised his head, he saw 
a spasm of mortal agony pass over the face ; — she strug- 
gled for breath, and threw up her little hands. 

" O, God, this is dreadful!" he said, turning away 
in agony, and wringing Tom's hand, scarce conscious 
what he was doing. " O, Tom, my boy, it is killing 






DESCRIPTIVE AND NARRATIVE, 407 

me ! " Tom had his master's hands between his own ; 
and, with tears streaming down his dark cheeks, looked 
up for help where he had always been used to look. 

"Pray that this may be cut short! " said St. Clare, 
— ' ' this wrings my heart. " 

" O, bless the Lord ! it 's over, — it 's over, dear Mas- 
ter ! " said Tom ; ' ' look at her. " 

The child lay panting on her pillows, as one ex- 
hausted, — the large, clear eyes rolled up and fixed. Ah, 
what said those eyes, that spoke so much of heaven ? 
Earth was past, and earthly pain ; but so solemn, so mys- 
terious, was the triumphant brightness of that face, that 
it checked even the sobs of sorrow. They pressed 
around her, in breathless stillness. 

"Eva," said St. Clare, gently. 

She did not hear. 

"O, Eva, tell us what you see ! What is it?" said 
her father. 

A bright, a glorious smile passed over her face, and 
she said, brokenly, — " O ! love, — joy, — peace ! " 



LITTLE NELL. 

CHARLES DICKENS. 

If the peace of the simple village had moved the 
child more strongly, because of the dark and troubled 
ways that lay beyond, and through which she had jour- 
neyed with such failing feet, what was the deep impres- 
sion of finding herself alone in that solemn building, 
where the very light, coming through sunken windows, 
seemed old and gray, and the air, redolent of earth and 



408 SELECTIONS. 

mold, seemed laden with decay, purified by time of all 
its grosser particles, and sighing through arch and aisle, 
and clustered pillars, like the breath of ages gone ! Here 
was the broken pavement, worn, so long ago, by pious 
feet, that Time, stealing on the pilgrim's steps, had 
trodden out their track, and left but crumbling stones. 
Here were the rotten beam, the sinking arch, the sapped 
and moldering wall, the lowly trench of earth, the 
stately tomb on which no epitaph remained, — all, — 
marble, stone, iron, wood, and dust, one common monu- 
ment of ruin. The best work and the worst, the plain- 
est and the richest, the stateliest and the least imposing 
— both of Heaven's work and man's — all found one 
common level here, and told one common tale. 

Some part of the edifice had been a baronial chapel, 
and here were effigies of warriors stretched upon their 
beds of stone, with folded hands, cross-legged, — those 
who had fought in the Holy Wars, — girded with their 
swords, and cased in armor, as they had lived. Some 
of these knights had their own weapons, helmets, coats 
of mail, hanging upon the walls hard by, and dangling 
from rusty hooks. Broken and dilapidated as they 
were, they yet retained their ancient form, and some- 
thing of their ancient aspect. Thus violent deeds live 
after men upon the earth, and traces of war and blood- 
shed will survive in mournful shapes long after those 
who worked the desolation are but atoms of earth 
themselves. 

The child sat down, in this old, silent place, among 
the stark figures on the tombs — they made it more 
quiet there, than elsewhere, to her fancy — and gazing 
around with a feeling of awe, tempered with a calm 



DESCRIPTIVE AND NARRATIVE. 409 

delight, felt that now she was happy, and at rest. She 
took a Bible from the shelf, and read ; then, laying it 
down, thought of the summer days and the bright 
springtime that would come, — of the rays of sun that 
would fall in aslant upon the sleeping forms, — of the 
leaves that would flutter at the window, and play in 
glistening shadows on the pavement, — of the songs of 
birds and growth of buds and blossoms out of doors, — 
of the sweet air, that would steal in, and gently wave 
the tattered banners overhead. What if the spot 
awakened thoughts of death ! Die who would, it would 
still remain the same ; these sights and sounds would 
still go on, as happily as ever. It would be no pain to 
sleep amidst them. 

She left the chapel — very slowly, and often turning 
back to gaze again — and coming to a low door, which 
plainly led into the tower, opened it, and climbed the 
winding stair in darkness ; save where she looked down, 
through narrow loop-holes, on the place she had left, or 
caught a glimmering vision of the dusty bells. At length 
she gained the end of the ascent and stood upon the tur- 
ret top. 

O ! the glory of the sudden burst of light ; the fresh- 
ness of the fields and woods, stretching away on every 
side, and meeting the bright blue sky ; the cattle gra- 
zing in the pasturage ; the smoke, that, coming from 
among the trees, seemed to rise upward from the green 
earth ; the children yet at their gambols down below — 
all, everything, so beautiful and happy ! It was like pass- 
ing from death to life ; it was drawing nearer heaven. 

The children were gone when she emerged into the 
porch and locked the door. As she passed the school- 



410 SELECTIONS. 

house, she could hear the busy hum of voices. Her 
friend had begun his labors only on that day. The 
noise grew louder, and, looking back, she saw the boys 
come trooping out and disperse themselves with merry 
shouts and play. "It's a good thing," thought the 
child, " I 'm very glad they pass the church." And then 
she stopped, to fancy how the noise would sound inside, 
and how gently it would seem to die away upon the ear. 

Again that day, yes, twice again, she stole back to 
the old chapel, and in her former seat read from the 
same book, or indulged the same quiet train of thought. 
Even when it had grown dusk, and the shadows of com- 
ing night made it more solemn still, the child remained, 
like one rooted to the spot, and had no fear or thought 
of stirring. 

They found her there, at last, and took her home. 
She looked pale, but very happy, until they separated 
for the night ; and then, as the poor schoolmaster 
stooped down to kiss her cheek, he thought he felt a 
tear upon his face. 



THE SILENT SLEEPER. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 



There, upon her little bed, she lay at rest. The 
solemn stillness was no marvel now. 

She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so 
free from trace of pain, so fair to look ,upon. She 
seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and 
waiting for the breath of life ; not one who had lived, 
and suffered death. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND NARRATIVE. 4-11 

Her couch was dressed with here and there some 
winter berries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she 
had been used to favor. ''When I die, put near me 
something that has loved the light, and had the sky 
above it always." Those were her words. 

She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell 
was dead. Her little bird, — a poor slight thing the 
pressure of a finger would have crushed, — was stirring 
nimbly in its cage ; and the strong heart of its child 
mistress was mute and motionless forever. 

Where were the traces of her early cares, her suffer- 
ings, and fatigues? — All gone. Sorrow was dead 
indeed in her, but peace and perfect happiness were 
born ; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound 
repose. 

And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this 
change. Yes. The old fireside had smiled upon that 
same sweet face ; it had passed, like a dream, through 
haunts of misery and care ; at the door of the poor 
schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace 
fire upon the cold wet night, at the still bedside of the 
dying boy, there had been the same mild lovely 
look. . . . 

The old man held one languid arm in his, and had 
the small hand tight folded to his breast, for warmth. 
It was the hand she had stretched out to him with her 
last smile, — the hand that had led him on, through all 
their wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his 
lips ; then hugged it to his breast again, murmuring 
that it was warmer now 7 ; and, as he said it, he looked, 
in agony, to those who stood around, as if imploring 
them to help her. 



412 SELECTIONS. 

She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The 
ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even 
while her own was waning fast — the garden she had 
tended — the eyes she had gladdened — the noiseless 
haunts of many a thoughtful hour — the paths she had 
trodden as it were but yesterday — could know her 
nevermore. 



MYSTERY OF LIFE. 

JOHN RUSKIN. 

My thoughts have changed also, as my words have ; 
and whereas in earlier life what little influence I 
obtained was due perhaps chiefly to the enthusiasm 
with which I was able to dwell on the beauty of the 
physical clouds, and of their colors in the sky ; so all 
the influence I now desire to retain must be due to the 
earnestness with which I am endeavoring to trace the 
form and beauty of another kind of cloud than those, — 
the bright cloud of which it is written, — 

"What is your life? — It is even as a vapor that 
appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away." 

I suppose few people reach the middle or latter 
period of their age, without having, at some moment of 
change or disappointment, felt the truth of those bitter 
words, and been startled by the fading of the sunshine 
from the cloud of their life, into the sudden agony of the 
knowledge that the fabric of it was as fragile as a dream, 
and the endurance of it as transient as the dew. But it 
is not always that, even at such times of melancholy 
surprise, we can enter into any true perception that this 



DESCRIPTIVE AND NARRATIVE. 413 

human life shares, in the nature of it, not only the 
evanescence, but the mystery, of the cloud ; that its 
avenues are wreathed in darkness, and its forms and 
courses no less fantastic than spectral and obscure ; so 
that not only in the vanity which we cannot grasp, but 
in the shadow which we cannot pierce, it is true of this 
cloudy life of ours, that ' ' man walketh in a vain shadow, 
and disquieteth himself in vain." 

And least of all, whatever may have been the eager- 
ness of our passions or the height of our pride, are we 
able to understand in its depth the third and most 
solemn character in which our life is like those clouds 
of heaven : that to it belongs not only their transcience, 
not only their mystery, but also their power ; that in the 
cloud of the human soul there is a fire stronger than the 
lightning, and a grace more precious than the rain ; and 
that though of the good and evil it shall one day be said 
alike, that the place that knew them knows them no 
more, there is an infinite separation between those 
whose brief presence had there been a blessing, like the 
mist of Eden that went up from the earth to water the 
garden, and those whose place knew them only as a 
drifting and changeful shade, of whom the heavenly 
sentence is, that they are ' ' wells without water ; clouds 
that are carried with a tempest, to whom the mist of 
darkness is reserved forever." 



I dreamed I was at a child's May-day party, in which 
every means of entertainment had been provided for 
them by a wise and kind host. It was in a stately 
house, with beautiful gardens attached to it, and the 



414 SELECTIONS. 

children had been set free in the rooms and gardens, 
with no care whatever but how to pass their afternoon 
rejoicingly. They did not, indeed, know much about 
what was to happen next day ; and some of them I 
thought were a little frightened because there was a 
chance of their being sent to a new school where there 
were examinations ; but they kept the thoughts of that 
out of their heads as well as they could, and resolved to 
enjoy themselves. The house, I said, was in a beautiful 
garden, and in the garden were all kinds of flowers ; 
sweet, grassy banks for rest ; and smooth lawns for 
play ; and pleasant streams and woods ; and rocky 
places for climbing. And the children were happy for 
a little while ; but presently they separated themselves 
into parties, and then each party declared it would have 
a piece of the garden for its own, and that none of the 
others should have anything to do with that piece. 
Next, they quarreled violently [about] which pieces 
they would have. And at last the boys took up the 
thing, as boys should do, "practically," and fought in 
the flower-beds till there was hardly a flower left stand- 
ing ; then they trampled down each other's bits of the 
garden out of spite, and the girls cried till they could 
cry no more ; and so they all lay down at last breath- 
less in the ruin, and waited for the time when they were 
to be taken home in the evening. 

Meanwhile, the children in the house had been ma- 
king themselves happy also, in their manner. For them 
there had been provided every kind of indoors pleas- 
ure : there was music for them to dance to ; and the 
library was open, with all manner of amusing books ; 
and there was a museum full of the most curious shells 



DESCRIPTIVE AND NARRATIVE. 415 

and animals and birds ; and there was a workshop, with 
lathes and carpenters' tools, for the ingenious boys ; and 
there were pretty fantastic dresses for the girls to dress 
in ; and there were microscopes and kaleidoscopes and 
whatever toys a child could fancy ; and a table in the 
dining-room loaded with everything nice to eat. But in 
the midst of all this, it struck two or three of the more 
''practical" children that they would like some of the 
brass-headed nails that studded the chairs, and so they 
set to work to pull them out. Presently the others, 
who were reading or looking at shells, took a fancy to 
do the like ; and in a little while all the children, nearly, 
were spraining their fingers in pulling out brass-headed 
nails. With all that they could pull out they were not 
satisfied ; and then everybody wanted some of some- 
body else's. And at last the really practical and sensible 
ones declared that nothing was of any real consequence 
that afternoon except to get plenty of brass-headed 
nails ; and that the books and the cakes and the micro- 
scopes were of no use at all in themselves, but only if 
they could be exchanged for nail-heads. And at last 
they began to fight for nail-heads, as the others fought 
for the bits of garden. Only here and there a despised 
one shrunk away into a corner, and tried to get a little 
quiet with a book, in the midst of the noise ; but all 
the practical ones thought of nothing else but counting 
nail-heads all the afternoon, even though they knew 
that they would not be allowed to carry so much as 
one brass knob away with them. But no ! it was, 
"Who has most nails? I have a hundred, and you 
have fifty;" or, "I have a thousand, and you have 
two. I must have as many as you before I leave the 



416 SELECTIONS. 

house, or I cannot possibly go home in peace." At 
last they made so much noise that I awoke, and thought 
to myself, "What a false dream that is of children." 
The child is the father of the man, and wiser. Chil- 
dren never do such foolish things. Only men do. 



FROM THE " DESERTED VILLAGE." 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 

Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain, 

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 

And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed ; 

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please. 

How often have I loitered o'er thy green, 

Where humble happiness endeared each scene ; 

How often have I paused on every charm, — 

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 

The decent church that topped the neighboring hill, 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 

For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 

* * * * * 

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, 
The mingling notes came softened from below, — 
The swain, responsive as the milk-maid sung ; 
The sober herd, that lowed to meet their young ; 
The noisy geese, that gabbled o'er the pool ; 
The playful children, just let loose from school ; 
The watch-dog's voice, that bayed the whispering wind 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; — 



DESCRIPTIVE AND NARRATIVE. 417 



And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 

But now the sounds of population fail, 

No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 

No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, 

But all the blooming flush of life is fled, — 

All but yon widowed, solitary thing, 

That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 

She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, 

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 

To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, 

To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; — 

She only, left of all the harmless train, 

The sad historian of the pensive plain. 



Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 

And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; 

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 

The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 

A man he was to all the country dear, 

And passing rich with forty pounds a year. 

Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place ; 

Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, 

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 

More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 

His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 

He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain : 

The long- remembered beggar was his guest, 

Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 

Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed : 

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 

Sat by his fire, and talked the night away ; 

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 

Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. 



418 SELECTIONS. 

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side ; 
But in his duty prompt at every call, 
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all : 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, 
The reverend champion stood. At his control, 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
' Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 

His looks adorned the venerable place ; 

Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 

And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 

The service past, around the pious man, 

With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran, 

E'en children followed with endearing wile, 

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile. 

His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed, 

Their welfare pleased him, and their care distressed ; 

To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 

But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven ; — 

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 

Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 






DESCRIPTIVE AND NARRATIVE. 419 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way 

With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, 

There in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, 

The village master taught his little school : 

A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 

I knew him well, and every truant knew ; 

Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 

The day's disasters in his morning face ; 

Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 

At all his jokes, — for many a joke had he ; 

Full well the busy whisper circling round, 

Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned : 

Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, 

The love he bore to learning was in fault ; 

The village all declared how much he knew, — 

'T was certain he could write, and cipher, too ; 

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 

And e'en the story ran that he could gauge : 

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill ; 

For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still ; 

While words of learned length, and thundering sound, 

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around, — 

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 

That one small head could carrv all he knew. 



But past is all his fame. The very spot 

Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. 

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 

Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 

Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, 

Where gray-beard mirth, and smiling toil retired, 

Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, 

And news much older than their ale went round. 

Imagination fondly stoops to trace 

The parlor splendors of that festive place, — 

The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor, 

The varnished clock, that clicked behind the door ; 



420 SELECTIONS. 

The chest contrived a double debt to pay, — 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
The hearth — except when winter chilled the day 
With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel gay ; 
While broken teacups, wisely kept for show, 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 

Vain, transitory splendor ! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair, 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear ; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round : 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be pressed, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 

These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 

To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 

One native charm, than all the gloss of art : 

Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, 

The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; 

Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 

Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. 

But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 

With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, — 

In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 

The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 

And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 

The heart distrusting asks if this be joy. 



DESCRIPTIVE AND NARRATIVE. 421 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay ! 
'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 



THE "BAS BLANC" (THE WHITE STOCKING). 

HANNAH MORE. 

A letter sent by Miss More to Mrs Pepys, with a pair of stockings knitted 
for one of her children 

Dear Madam, — 

I beg to dedicate the inclosed work, the fruit of a 
few days' leisure at St. Albans, to either of your little 
children of whose capacity of receiving it you will be the 
best judge upon trial ; for there is a certain fitness with- 
out which the best works are of little value. Though it 
is so far of a moral cast that its chief end is utility, 
I hope that the child will be able to run through it 
with pleasure. I may say, without vanity, that it is 
founded upon the precepts of the great masters of the 
epopceia, with but few exceptions. The subject is 
simple ; but it has a beginning, [a] middle, and [an] 
end. The exordium is the natural introduction by 
which you are let into the whole work. The middle, I 
trust, is free from any unnatural tumor or inflation, and 
the end from any disproportionate littleness. I have 
avoided bringing about the catastrophe too suddenly, as 
I know that would hurt him at whose feet I lay it. For 
the same reason, I took care to shun too pointed a 
conclusion, still reserving my greatest acuteness for this 
part of my subject. I had materials for a much longer 
work, but the art to stop has always appeared to me no 



422 SELECTIONS. 

less the great secret of a poet than the art to blot ; and 
whoever peruses this work will see that I could not have 
added another line without such an unraveling as would 
have greatly perplexed the conclusion. My chief care 
has been to unite the two great essentials of composi- 
tion, — ease and strength. I do not pretend to have 
paid any great attention to the passions, and yet I hope 
my work will not be found deficient either in warmth or 
softness ; but these will be better felt than expressed. 
Now and then, partly from negligence and partly from 
temerity, I have broken the thread of my narration, but 
have pieced it so happily that none but the eye of a 
professor, which looks into the interior, will detect it ; 
and the initiated are generally candid because they are 
in the secret. What little ornament there is I have 
bestowed, not injudiciously I trow, on the slenderest 
part. You will find but one episode, and even that does 
not obstruct the progress of the main subject ; and for 
parallels, I will be bold to say Plutarch does not furnish 
one so perfect. The rare felicity of this species of com- 
position is the bold attempt to unite poetry with mechan- 
ics, — for which see the clockwork in the third section. 
As all innovation is a proof of a false taste or a fantastic 
vanity, I was content to use the old machinery in work- 
ing up the piece. I have taken care not to overlay the 
severe simplicity of the ancients (my great precursors in 
this walk) with any finery of my own invention ; and 
like other moderns, you will find I have failed only in 
proportion as I have neglected my model. After all, I 
wish the work may not be thought too long ; but of this 
he to whose use it is dedicated will be the best judge. 
His feelings must determine, and that is a decision from 



DESCRIPTIVE AND NARRATIVE. 423 

which there lies no appeal ; for in this case, as in most 
others, le tact is a surer standard than the rules. I beg 
your pardon for so tedious a preface to so slight a 
performance ; but the subject has been near my heart 
as often as I have had the work in hand, and as I expect 
it will long survive all my other productions, I am desir- 
ous to place it in the Pepysian collection, humbly hoping 
that though neither defaced nor mutilated, it may be 
found as useful as many a black-letter manuscript of 
more recondite learning. 

I am, dear madam, etc., 

L'amie des Enfants. 



A LETTER. 

HANNAH MORE. 

This hot weather makes me suffer terribly ; yet I 
have now and then a good day, and on Sunday was 
enabled to open the school. It was an affecting sight. 
Several of the grown-up youths had been tried at the 
last assizes ; three were the children of a person lately 
condemned to be hanged ; many, thieves, — all ignorant, 
profane, and vicious beyond belief. Of this banditti we 
have enlisted one hundred and seventy ; and when the 
clergyman, a hard man, who is also the magistrate, saw 
these creatures kneeling round us, whom he had seldom 
seen but to commit or punish in some way, he burst into 
tears. I can do them little good, I fear, but the grace 
of God can do all. . . . Have you never found your 
mind, when it has been weak, now and then touched 
and raised by some little incident ? Some musical 



424 SELECTIONS. 

gentlemen, drawn from a distance by curiosity, just as I 
was coming out of church with my ragged regiment, 
much depressed to think how little good I could do 
them, quite unexpectedly struck up that beautiful and 
animating anthem, "Inasmuch as ye have done it to 
one of the least of these, ye have done it unto Me." 



DESCRIPTION OF A MENDIP FEAST.* 

HANNAH MORE. 

The clergy of most of the parishes attended, and led 
the procession. A band of rustic music, — a tribute of 
gratitude from all the neighboring villages, — stepped 
forward, and preceded the whole, playing ' ' God Save 
the King." We followed the clergy ; then Ma'am Baker 
and her two hundred Cheddarites ; and so on, the pro- 
cession ending with Nailsea, — the girls having fine nose- 
gays, and the boys carrying white rods in their hands, 
the gentlemen and ladies weeping as though we had 
exhibited a deep tragedy, though the pleasing idea of 
the hungry going to be fed, I believe, caused these tears 
— rather those of joy than of sorrow. 

At the entrance of our circle the music withdrew, 
and the children then struck up their psalms and hymns. 
All were then seated in circles, fifteen completing the 
whole. The effect was really very interesting. When 
all were served, they arose ; and each pastor, stepping 
into the midst, prayed for his [God's] blessing on his 
own flock. And this part of the ceremony they did 
well. Examinations, singing, etc., took place. At 



* This feast was a dinner of beef and plum pudding given to the children from 
all the schools, 



DESCRIPTIVE AND NARRATIVE. 425 

length every voice on the hill was permitted, nay, 
invited, to join in one general chorus of " God Save the 
King." This is the only pleasure in the form of a song 
we ever allow. Instantaneously the children, their mas- 
ters and mistresses, keeping their eyes on the clergy and 
ourselves, fell into the procession as at the beginning, 
walked to the place where we first met, and every school 
marched off to their several districts singing hallelujahs 
till they sank into the valley, and their voices could no 
more be heard. At this moment every heart seemed 
softened and subdued, and many eyes shed tears. 

Seven or eight thousand people attended, and 
behaved as quietly as the sheep that grazed around us. 
Thus did this day open to us much matter for reflec- 
tion. Farmers and their wives mixed with their own 
poor, and rode in the same conveyances, — their own 
wagons. The clergy headed this ragged procession, 
with hats in their hands. Seven thousand people 
showed us they could be quiet on a day of merriment, 
not to say innocent. Upwards of nine hundred children 
were well fed as a reward for a year's labor, and that 
labor learning the Bible. The meeting took its rise 
from religious institutions. The day passed in the 
exercise of duties, and closed with joy. Nothing of a 
gay nature was introduced, but loyalty to the king ; and 
this never interfered with higher duties to the King of 
kings. The examinations were in the repetition of the 
Bible, Catechism, and Psalms, when the children 
received prizes according to their proficiency. Either 
then, or at the annual school feasts, brides of good 
character were presented with a Bible, a pair of stock- 
ings, and five shillings, — almost a fortune when a 
spinning-wheel cost four-and-six-pence. 



CHAPTER SEVEN. 



Public Speeches and Patriotic Sentiment. 

ORATION ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 

GEORGE BANCROFT. 

Our grief and horror at the crime which has clothed 
the continent in mourning, find no adequate expression 
in words, and no relief in tears. The president of the 
United States of America has fallen by the hands of an 
assassin. Neither the office with which he was invested 
by the approved choice of a mighty people, nor the most 
simple-hearted kindliness of nature, could save him from 
the fiendish passions of relentless fanaticism. The wail- 
ings of the millions attend his remains as they are borne 
in solemn procession over our great rivers, along the 
seaside, beyond the mountains, across the prairie, to 
their resting-place in the valley of the Mississippi. His 
funeral knell vibrates through the world, and the friends 
of freedom of every tongue and in every clime are his 
mourners. 

Too few days have passed away since Abraham 
Lincoln stood in the flush of vigorous manhood, to 
permit any attempt at an analysis of his character 
or an exposition of his career. We find it hard to 
believe that his large eyes, which, in their softness and 
beauty, expressed nothing but benevolence and gentle- 
[426] 



PUBLIC SPEECHES AND PATRIOTIC SENTIMENT. ±'27 

ness, are closed in death ; we almost look for the 
pleasant smile that brought out more vividly the earnest 
cast of his features, which were serious even to sadness. 
A few years ago he was a village attorney, engaged in 
the support of a rising family, unknown to fame, 
scarcely named beyond his neighborhood ; his adminis- 
tration made him the most conspicuous man in his 
country, and drew on him first the astonished gaze, and 
then the respect and admiration of the world. 

Those who come after us will decide how much of 
the wonderful results of his public career is due to his 
own good common sense, his shrewd sagacity, readiness 
of wit, quick interpretation of the public mind, his rare 
combination of fixedness and pliancy, his steady tendency 
of purpose ; how much to the American people, who, as 
he walked with them side by side, inspired him with 
their own wisdom and energy ; and how much to the 
overruling laws of the moral world, by which the selfish- 
ness of evil is made to defeat itself. But after every 
allowance, it will remain that members of the govern- 
ment which preceded his administration opened the gates 
to treason, and he closed them ; that when he went to 
Washington, the ground on which he trod, shook under 
his feet, and he left the republic on a solid foundation ; 
that traitors had seized public forts and arsenals, and he 
recovered them for the United States, to whom they 
belonged ; that the capital, which he found the abode of 
slaves, is now the home only of the free ; that the bound- 
less public domain which was grasped at, and, in a great 
measure, held for the diffusion of slavery, is now irrevo- 
cably devoted to freedom ; that then men talked a jargon 
of a balance of power in a republic between Slave States 



428 SELECTIONS. 

and Free States, and now the foolish words are blown 
away forever by the breath of Maryland, Missouri, and 
Tennessee ; that a terrible cloud of political heresy rose 
from the abyss, threatening to hide the light of the sun, 
and under its darkness a rebellion was growing into 
indefinable proportions ; now the atmosphere is purer 
than ever before, and the insurrection is vanishing away ; 
the country is cast into another mold, and the gigantic 
system of wrong, which had been the work of more than 
two centuries, is dashed down, we hope forever. And 
as to himself, personally : he was then scoffed at by the 
proud as unfit for his station, and now against usage of 
later years and in spite of numerous competitors, he 
was the unbiased and the undoubted choice of the Ameri- 
can people for a second term of service. Through all 
the mad business of treason, he retained the sweetness 
of a most placable disposition ; and the slaughter of 
myriads of the best on the battle-field, and the more 
terrible destruction of our men in captivity by the slow 
torture of exposure and starvation, had never been able 
to provoke him into harboring one vengeful feeling or 
one purpose of cruelty. 

How shall, the nation most completely show its sor- 
row at Mr. Lincoln's death ? How shall it best honor 
his memory ? There can be but one answer. He was 
struck down when he was highest in its service, and in 
strict conformity with duty was engaged in carrying out 
principles affecting its life, its good name, and its rela- 
tions to the cause of freedom and the progress of man- 
kind. Grief must take the character of action, and 
breathe itself forth in the assertion of the policy to which 
he fell a victim. The standard which he held in his 



PUBLIC SPEECHES AND PATRIOTIC SENTIMENT. 4:29 

hand must be uplifted again higher and more firmly than 
before, and must be carried on to triumph. Above 
everything else, his proclamation of the first day of Janu- 
ary, 1863, declaring throughout the parts of the country 
in rebellion, the freedom of all persons who had been 
held as slaves, must be affirmed and maintained. . . . 
No sentiment of despair may mix with our sorrow. 
We owe it to the memory of the dead, we owe it to the 
cause of popular liberty throughout the world, that the 
sudden crime which has taken the life of the President of 
the United States shall not produce the least impediment 
in the smooth course of public affairs. 



His death, which was meant to sever it [the Union] 
beyond repair, binds it more closely and more firmly than 
ever. The blow aimed at him, was aimed not at the 
native of Kentucky, not at the citizen of Illinois, but at 
the man, who, as President, in the executive branch of 
the government, stood as the representative of every 
man in the United States. The object of the crime was 
the life of the whole people ; and it wounds the affec- 
tions of the whole people. From Maine to the south- 
west boundary on the Pacific, it makes us one. The 
country may have needed an imperishable grief to touch 
its inmost feeling. The grave that receives the remains 
of Lincoln, receives the costly sacrifice to the Union ; the 
monument which will rise over his body will bear witness 
to the Union ; his enduring memory will assist during 
countless ages to bind the States together, and to incite 
to the love of our own undivided, indivisible country. 
Peace to the ashes of our departed friend, — the friend 



430 SELECTIONS. 

of his country and of his race ! He was happy in his 
life ; for he was the restorer of the republic : he was 
happy in his death ; for his martyrdom will plead forever 
for the Union of the States and the freedom of man. 



LINCOLN'S SPEECH IN INDEPENDENCE HALL. 

On Washington's birthday, 1861, when Lincoln was on his way to Washington to be 
inaugurated as the great successor to the great first President, it was arranged that he 
should raise a new flag at Independence Hall in Philadelphia. He did so, and on the 
occasion made the following speech. It was in this hall that his body lay when it was on 
its way to Springfield after his assassination. 

I am filled with deep emotion at finding myself 
standing in this place, where were collected together the 
wisdom, the patriotism, the .devotion to principle, from 
which sprang the institutions under which we live. You 
have kindly suggested to me that in my hands is the 
task of restoring peace to our distracted country. I can 
say in return, sirs, that all the political sentiments I 
entertain have been drawn, so far as I have been able 
to draw them, from the sentiments which originated in, 
and were given to the world from, this hall. I have 
never had a feeling, politically, that did not spring from 
the sentiments embodied in the Declaration of Inde- 
pendence. I have' often pondered over the dangers 
which were incurred by the men who assembled here, 
and framed and adopted that Declaration. I have pon- 
dered over the toils that were endured by the officers 
and soldiers of the army who achieved that Independ- 
ence. I have often inquired of myself what great prin- 
ciple or idea it was that kept this Confederacy so long 
together. It was not the mere matter of separation of 



PUBLIC SPEECHES AND PATRIOTIC SENTIMENT. 431 

the colonies from the motherland, but that sentiment in 
the Declaration of Independence which gave liberty, not 
alone to the people of this country, but hope to all the 
world, for all future time. It was that which gave 
promise that in due time the weight would be lifted 
from the shoulders of all men, and that all should have 
an equal chance. This is the sentiment embodied in 
the Declaration of Independence. Now, my friends, 
can this country be saved on that basis ? If it can, I 
will consider myself one of the happiest men in the 
world if I can help to save it. If it cannot be saved 
upon that principle, it will be truly awful. But if this 
country cannot be saved without giving up that prin- 
ciple, I was about to say I would rather be assassinated 
on this spot than surrender it. Now, in my view of the 
present aspect of affairs, there is no need of bloodshed 
and war. There is no necessity for it. I am not in 
favor of such a course ; and I may say in advance that 
there will be no bloodshed unless it be forced upon the. 
Government. The Government will not use force, 
unless force is used against it. 

My friends, this is wholly an unprepared speech. 
I did not expect to be called on to say a word when I 
came here. I supposed it was merely to do something 
toward raising a flag ; — I may, therefore, have said 
something indiscreet. [Cries of "No, No."" But I 
have said nothing but what I am willing to live by, and, 
if it be the pleasure of Almighty God, die by. 



432 SELECTIONS. 



LINCOLN'S GETTYSBURG SPEECH. 

Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought 
forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in lib- 
erty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are 
created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, 
testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived 
and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a 
great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedi- 
cate a portion of that field as a final resting-place for 
those who here gave their lives that that nation might 
live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should 
do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we 
cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The 
brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have 
consecrated it far above our poor power to add or 
detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, 
what we say here, but it can never forget what they did 
here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here 
to the unfinished work which they who fought here have 
thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be 
here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, — 
that from these honored dead we take increased devo- 
tion to that cause for which they gave the last full meas- 
ure of devotion, — that we here highly resolve that these 
dead shall not have died in vain, — that this nation, 
under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, — and 
that government of the people, by the people, for the 
people, shall not perish from the earth. 



PUBLIC SPEECHES AND PATRIOTIC SENTIMENT. 433 
BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 

JOHN G. WHITTIER. 

Up from the meadows, rich with corn, 
Clear in the cool September morn, 
The clustered spires of Frederick stand, 
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 

Round about them orchards sweep, 
Apple and peach tree fruited deep ; 
Fair as a garden of the Lord 
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde. 

On that pleasant morn of the early fall, 
When Lee marched over the mountain wall, 
Over the mountains winding down, 
Horse and foot, into Frederick town, 

Forty flags with their silver stars, 
Forty flags with their silver bars, 
Flapped in the morning wind : the sun 
Of noon looked down and saw not one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten, 
Bravest of all in Frederick town, 
She took up the flag the men hauled down ; 

In her attic window the staff she set, 
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 
Up the street came the rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead ; 

Under his slouched hat, left and right, 
He glanced ; the old flag met his sight. 

" Halt ! " — the dust-brown ranks stood fast ; 

" Fire ! " — out blazed the rifle blast. 

2S 



434 SELECTIONS. 

It shivered the window, pane and sash ; 
It rent the banner with seam and gash. 
Quick, as it fell from the broken staff, 
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf 

She leaned far out on the window-sill, 
And shook it forth with a royal will. 
" Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
But spare your country's flag," she said. 

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
Over the face of the leader came ; 
The noble nature within him stirred 
To life at that- woman's deed and word. 

" Who touches a hair of yon gray head, 
Dies like a dog. March on ! " he said. 
All day long through Frederick street 
Sounded the tread of marching feet ; — 

All day long that free flag tossed 
Over the heads of the rebel host ; 
Ever its torn folds rose and fell 
On the loyal winds, that loved it well ; 

And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
Shown over it with a warm good-night. 
Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, 
And the rebel rides on his raids no more. 

Honor to her ! and let a tear 
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier ! 
Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, 
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave ! 

Peace, and order, and beauty draw 
Round thy symbol of light and law ; 
And ever the stars above look down 
On thy stars below, in Frederick town ! 



PUBLIC SPEECHES AND PATRIOTIC SENTIMENT. 435 



DIFFICULTIES AND TORMENTS IN TRYING 
TO CONCEAL CRIME. 

DANIEL WEBSTER. 

He has done the murder. No eye has seen him, no 
ear has heard him. The secret is his own, and it is safe ! 

Ah ! Gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such 
a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of 
God has neither nook nor corner where the guilty can 
bestow it, and say it is safe. Not to speak of that eye 
which pierces through all disguises, and beholds every- 
thing as in the splendor of noon, such secrets of guilt are 
never safe from detection, even by men. True it is, 
generally speaking, that " murder will out." True it is, 
that Providence hath so ordained, and doth so govern 
things, that those who break the great law of Heaven by 
shedding man's blood, seldom succeed in avoiding dis- 
covery. Especially, in a case exciting so much atten- 
tion as this, discovery must come, and will come, sooner 
or later. A thousand eyes turn at once to explore every 
man, every thing, every circumstance, connected with 
the time and place ; a thousand ears catch every 
whisper ; a thousand excited minds intensely dwell on 
the scene, shedding all their light, and ready to kindle 
the slightest circumstance into a blaze of discovery. 
Meantime the guilty soul cannot keep its own secret. 
It is false to itself ; or rather it feels an irresistible 
impulse of conscience to be true to itself. It labors 
under its guilty possession, and knows not what to do 
with it. The human heart was not made for the resi- 



436 SELECTIONS. 

dence of such an inhabitant. It finds itself preyed on 
by a torment which it dares not acknowledge to God or 
man. A vulture is devouring it, and it can ask no 
sympathy or assistance, either from heaven or earth. 
The secret which the murderer possesses soon comes to 
possess him ; and, like the evil spirits of which we read, 
it overcomes him, and leads him whithersoever it will. 
He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat, and 
demanding disclosure. He thinks the whole world sees 
it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and almost hears its 
workings in the very silence of his thoughts. It has 
become his master. It betrays his discretion, it breaks 
down his courage, it conquers his prudence. When 
suspicions from without begin to embarrass him, and 
the net of circumstances to entangle him, the fatal 
secret struggles with still greater violence to burst forth. 
It must be confessed, it will be confessed ; there is no 
refuge from confession but suicide, and suicide is 
confession. 



EMANCIPATION. 

J. G. WHITTIER. 

O dark, sad millions, patiently and dumb 
Waiting for God, your hour, at last, has come, 

And freedom's song 
Breaks the long silence of your night of wrong. 

Arise and flee ! shake off the vile restraint 
Of ages ; but, like Ballymena's saint, 

The oppressor spare, 
Heap only on his head the coals of prayer. 



PUBLIC SPEECHES AND PATRIOTIC SENTIMENT. 437 

Go forth, like him ! like him return again, 
To bless the land whereon in bitter pain 

Ye toiled at first, 
And heal with freedom what your slavery cursed. 



NATIONAL PARTIALITY AND PREJUDICE. 

BOLINGBROKE. 

There is scarce any folly or vice more epidemical 
among the sons of men than that ridiculous and hurtful 
vanity by which the people of each country are apt to 
prefer themselves to those of every other ; and to make 
their own customs, and manners, and opinions, the 
standards of right and wrong, of true and false. The 
Chinese mandarins were strangely surprised, and almost 
incredulous, when the Jesuits showed them how small 
a figure their empire made in the general map of the 
world. . . . Now, nothing can contribute more to pre- 
vent us from being tainted with this vanity, than to 
accustom ourselves early to contemplate the different 
nations of the earth, in that vast map which history 
spreads before us, in their rise and their fall, in their 
barbarous and civilized states, in the likeness and unlike- 
ness of them all to one another, and of each to itself. 
By frequently renewing this prospect to the mind, the 
Mexican with his cap and coat of feathers, sacrificing a 
human victim to his god, will not appear more savage to 
our eyes than the Spaniard with a hat on his head, and 
a gonilla round his neck, sacrificing whole nations to his 
ambition, his avarice, and even the wantonness of his 



438 SELECTIONS. 

cruelty. I might show, by a multitude of other exam- 
ples, how history prepares us for experience, and guides 
us in it ; and many of these would be both curious and 
important. 



PATRIOTISM; LIBERTY; FREEDOM. 

WILLIAM COWPER. 

Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere, 
And we too wise to trust them. He that takes 
Deep in his soft credulity the stamp 
Designed by loud declaimers on the part 
Of liberty, themselves the slaves of lust, 
Incurs derision for his easy faith 
And lack of knowledge, and with cause enough ; 
For when was public virtue to be found 
Where private was not ? Can he love the whole 
Who loves no part ? He be a nation's friend 
Who is, in truth, the friend of no man there ? 
Can he be strenuous in his country's cause, 
Who slights the charities for whose dear sake 
That country, if at all, must be beloved ? 



But there is yet a liberty unsung 
By poets, and by senators unpraised, 
Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the powers 
Of earth and hell confederate take away ; — 
A liberty which persecution, fraud, 
Oppression, prisons, have no power to bind ; 
Which whoso tastes can be enslaved no more. 
'Tis liberty of heart, derived from Heaven, 
Bought with His blood who gave it to mankind, 
And. sealed with the same token. 



PUBLIC SPEECHES AND PATRIOTIC SENTIMENT. 439 



He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, 
And all are slaves beside. There 's not a chain 
That hellish foes confederate for his harm 
Can wind around him, but he casts it off 
With as much ease as Samson his green withes. 
He looks abroad into the varied field 
Of nature, and though poor perhaps, compared 
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, 
Calls the delightful scenery all his own. 
His are the mountains, and the valleys his, 
And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy 
With a propriety that none can feel 
But who, with filial confidence inspired, 
Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, 
And smiling say, — " My Father made them all ! " 
Are they not his by a peculiar right, 
And by an emphasis of interest his, 
Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, 
Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind 
With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love 
That planned, and built, and still upholds a world 
So clothed with beauty, for rebellious man ? 
Yea, ye may fill your garners, ye that reap 
The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good 
In senseless riot ; but ye will not find 
In feast or in the chase, in song or dance, 
A liberty like his, who unimpeached 
Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong 
Appropriates nature as his Father's work, 
And has a richer use of yours, than you. 
He is indeed a freeman ; — free by birth 
Of no mean city, planned or e'er the hills 
Were built, the fountains opened, or the sea 
With all his roaring multitude of waves. 
His freedom is the same in every state ; 
And no condition of this changeful life, 



440 SELECTIONS. 

So manifold in cares, whose every day 

Brings its own evil with it, makes it less ; 

For he has wings that neither sickness, pain, 

Nor penury can cripple or confine, 

No nook so narrow but he spreads them there 

With ease, and is at large. The oppressor holds 

His body bound, but knows not what a range 

His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain. 

And that to bind him is a vain attempt 

Whom God delights in, and in whom He dwells. 



CHAPTER EIGHT. 



Reflective. 

THE NIGHT JOURNEY OF A RIVER. 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

O River, gentle River ! gliding on 
In silence underneath the starless sky ! 
Thine is a ministry that never rests 
Even while the living slumber. For a time 
The meddler, man, hath left the elements 
In peace : the plowman breaks the clods no more 
The miner labors not, with steel and fire, 
To rend the rock, and he that hews the stone, 
And he that fells the forest, he that guides 
The loaded wain, and the poor animal 
That drags it, have forgotten, for a time, 
Their toils, and share the quiet of the earth. 

Thou pausest not in thine allotted task, 

darkling River ! Through the night I hear 
Thy wavelets rippling on the pebbly beach ; 

1 hear thy current stir the rustling sedge, 
That skirts thy bed ; thou intermittest not 
Thine everlasting journey, drawing on 

A silvery train from many a woodland spring 
And mountain-brook. The dweller by thy side, 
Who moored his little boat upon thy beach, 
Though all the waters that upbore it then 
Have slid awa)' o'er night, shall find, at morn. 
Thy channel filled with water freshly drawn 

[44i] 



442 SELECTIONS. 

From distant cliffs, and hollows where the rill 

Comes up amid the water-flags. All night 

Thou givest moisture to the thirsty roots 

Of the lithe willow and o'erhanging plane, 

And cherishest the herbage of thy bank, 

Spotted with little flowers, and sendest up 

Perpetually the vapors from thy face, 

To steep the hills with dew, or darken heaven 

With drifting clouds, that trail the shadowy shower. 

O River ! darkling River ! what a voice 
Is that thou utterest while all else is still, — 
The ancient voice that, centuries ago, 
Sounded between thy hills, while Rome was yet 
A weedy solitude by Tiber's stream ! 
How many, at this hour, along thy course, 
Slumber to thine eternal murmurings, 
That mingle with the utterance of their dreams ! 
At dead of night the child awakes, and hears 
Thy soft, familiar dashings, and is soothed, 
And sleeps again. An airy multitude 
Of little echoes, all unheard by day, 
Faintly repeat, till morning, after thee, 
The story of thine endless goings forth. 

Yet there are those who lie beside thy bed 
For whom thou once didst rear the bowers that screen 
Thy margin, and didst water the green fields ; 
And now there is no night so still that they 
Can hear thy lapse ; their slumbers, were thy voice 
Louder than Ocean's, it could never break. 
For them the early violet no more 
Opens upon thy bank, nor, for their eyes, 
Glitter the crimson pictures of the clouds 
Upon thy bosom when the sun goes down. 
Their memories are abroad, — the memories 
Of those who last were gathered to the earth, 
Lingering within the homes in which they sat, 



REFLECTIVE. 443 

Hovering above the paths in which they walked, 
Haunting them like a presence. Even now 
They visit many a dreamer in the forms 
They walked in, ere at last they wore the shroud. 
And eyes there are which will not close to dream, 
For weeping and for thinking of the grave, — 
The new-made grave, and the pale one within. 
The*se memories and these sorrows all shall fade, 
And pass away, and fresher memories 
And newer sorrows come and dwell awhile 
Beside thy borders, and, in turn, depart. 

On glide thy waters, till at last they flow 
Beneath the windows of the populous town, 
And- all night long give back the gleam of lamps, 
And glimmer with the trains of light that stream 
From halls where dancers whirl. A dimmer ray 
Touches thy surface from the silent room 
In which they tend the sick, or gather round 
The dying ; and the slender, steady beam 
Comes from the little chamber in the roof, 
Where, with a feverous crimson on her cheek, 
The solitary damsel, dying, too, 
Plies the quick needle till the stars grow pale. 
There, close beside the haunts of revel, stand 
The blank, unlighted windows, where the poor, 
In hunger and in darkness, wake till morn. 
There, drowsily, on the half-conscious ear 
Of the dull watchman, pacing on the wharf, 
Falls the soft ripple of the waves that strike 
On the moored bark ; but guiltier listeners 
Are nigh, the prowlers of the night, who steal 
From shadowy nook to shadowy nook, and start 
If other sounds than thine are in the air. 

O, glide away from these abodes, that bring 
Pollution to thy channel, and make foul 
Thy once clear current ; summon thy quick waves 



444 SELECTIONS, 

And dimpling eddies ; linger not, but haste, 

With all thy waters, haste thee to the deep, 

There to be tossed by shifting winds, and rocked 

By that mysterious force which lives within 

The sea's immensity, and wields the weight 

Of its abysses, swaying to and fro 

The billowy mass, until the stain, at length, 

Shall wholly pass away, and thou regain 

The crystal brightness of thy mountain-springs. 



EXTRACT FROM "THE VOYAGE." 

WASHINGTON IRVING. 

As I saw the last blue line of my native land fade 
away like a cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if I had 
closed one volume of the world and its concerns, and 
had time for meditation before I opened another. That 
land, too, now vanishing from my view, which contained 
all that was most dear to me in life, — what vicissitudes 
might occur in it — what changes might take place in 
me, before I should visit it again ! Who can tell, when 
he sets forth to wander, whither he may be driven by the 
uncertain currents of existence, or when he may return, 
or whether it may be ever his lot to revisit the scenes of 
his childhood ? 

I said that at sea all is vacancy ; I should correct the 
expression. To one given to day dreaming, and fond of 
losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects 
for meditation ; but then they are the wonders of the 
deep and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind 
from worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the quar- 
ter-railing or climb to the main-top, of a calm day, and 



REFLECTIVE. 44.') 

muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom of a sum- 
mer's sea ; to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just 
peering above the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, 
and people them with a creation of my own ; to watch 
the gentle undulating billows, rolling their silver volumes, 
as if to die away on those happy shores. 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled security 
and awe with which I looked down, from my giddy 
height, on the monsters of the deep at their uncouth 
gambols, — shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow 
of the ship ; the grampus, slowly heaving his huge form 
above the surface ; or the ravenous shark, darting, like a 
specter, through the blue waters. My imagination would 
conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery 
world beneath me ; of the finny herds that roam its 
fathomless valleys ; of the shapeless monsters that lurk 
among the very foundations of the earth ; and of those 
wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and 
sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of 
the ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. 
How interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to 
rejoin the great mass of existence ! What a glorious 
monument of human invention, that has thus triumphed 
over wind and wave ; has brought the ends of the world 
into communion ; has established an interchange of 
blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of the north all 
the luxuries of the south ; has diffused the light of 
knowledge, and the charities of cultivated life ; and has 
thus bound together those scattered portions of the 
human race, between which nature seemed to have 
thrown an insurmountable barrier. 



446 SELECTIONS. 

We one day descried some shapeless object drifting 
at a distance. At sea, everything that breaks the 
monotony of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. 
It proved to be the mast of a ship that must have been 
completely wrecked ; for there were the remains of 
handkerchiefs, by which some of the crew had fastened 
themselves to this spar, to prevent their being washed 
off by the waves. There was no trace by which the 
name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had 
evidently drifted about for many months ; clusters of 
shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds 
flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew? 
Their struggle has long been over ; — they have gone 
down amidst the roar of the tempest ; — their bones lie 
whitening among the caverns of the deep. Silence, 
oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no 
one can tell the story of their end. What sighs have 
been wafted after that ship ! what prayers offered up at 
the deserted fireside of home ! How often has the 
mistress, the wife, the mother, pored over the daily 
news, to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of 
the deep ! How has expectation darkened into anxiety 
— anxiety into dread — and dread into despair ! Alas ! 
not one memento shall ever return for love to cherish. 
All that shall ever be known, is that she sailed from her 
port, "and was never heard of more ! " 

The sight of the wreck, as usual, gave rise to many 
dismal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the 
evening, when the weather, which had hitherto been 
fair, began to look wild and threatening, and gave indi- 
cations of one of those sudden storms that will some- 
times break in upon the serenity of a summer voyage. 



REFLECTIVE. 447 

The storm increased with the night. The sea was 
lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a fearful, 
sullen sound of rushing waves and broken surges. Deep 
called unto deep. At times the black volume of clouds 
overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning 
that quivered along the foaming billows, and made the 
succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders 
bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and were 
echoed and prolonged by the mountain waves. As I 
saw the ship staggering and plunging among these 
roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous that she regained 
her balance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards 
would dip into the water ; her bow was almost buried 
beneath the waves. Sometimes an impending surge 
appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a 
dexterous movement of the helm preserved her from 
the shock. 

When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still 
followed me. The whistling of the wind through the 
rigging sounded like funereal wailings. The creaking of 
the masts, the straining and groaning of bulk-heads, as 
the ship labored in the weltering sea, were frightful. As 
I heard the waves rushing along the side of the ship, and 
roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were 
raging round this floating prison, seeking for his prey : 
the mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, 
might give him entrance. 

A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favor- 
ing breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. 
It is impossible to resist the gladdening influence of fine 
weather and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked 
out in all her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering 



448 SELECTIONS. 

gayly over the curling waves, how lofty, how gallant, 
she appears ! — how she seems to lord it over the deep ! 
I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage ; 
for with me it is almost a continual reverie ; — but it is 
time to get to shore. 



SOLITARY MUSINGS. 

HANNAH MORE. 

Lord, when dejected I appear, 
And love is half absorbed in fear, 
E*en then I know I 'm not forgot : 
Thou 'rt present, though I see thee not. 
Thy boundless mercy 's still the same, 
Though I am cold, nor feel the flame ; 
Though dull and hard my sluggish sense, 
Faith still maintains its evidence. 
O, would thy cheering beams so shine 
That I might always feel thee mine ! 
Yet, though a cloud may sometimes rise, 
And dim the brightness of my skies, 
By faith thy goodness I will bless : 
I shall be safe, though comfortless. 
Still, still my grateful soul shall melt 
At what in brighter days I felt. 
O wayward heart, thine be the blame ; 
Though I may change, God is the same. 
Not feebler faith, nor colder prayer, 
My state and sentence shall declare ; 
Nor nerves nor feeling shall decide : 
By safer signs I shall be tried. 
Is the fixed tenor of my mind 
To righteousness and Christ inclined ? 
For sin is my contrition deep ? 



REFLECTIVE. 449 

For past offenses do I weep ? 

Do I submit my stubborn will 

To Him who guards and guides me still ? — 

Then shall my peaceful bosom prove 

That God not loving is but Love. 



SILENCE. 

THOMAS HOOD. 

There is a silence where hath been no sound ; 

There is a silence where no sound may be, — 

In the cold grave — under the deep, deep sea, 
Or in wide desert where no life is found, 
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound. 

No voice is hushed — no life treads silently ; 

But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free, 
That never spoke, over the idle ground : 
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls 

Of antique palaces, where man hath been, — 
Though the dun fox or wild hyena calls, 

And owls, that flit continually between, 
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan, — 
There the true silence is, self-conscious and alone. 



THE SEA OF DEATH. 

HOOD. 

Methought I saw 
Life swiftly treading over endless space ; 
And, at her footprint, but a bygone pace, 
The ocean-past, which, with increasing wave, 
Swallowed her steps like a pursuing grave. 
29 



450 SELECTIONS. 

Sad were my thoughts that anchored silently 
On the dead waters of that passionless sea, 
Unstirred by any touch of living breath : 
Silence hung over it ; and drowsy Death, 
Like a gorged sea-bird, slept with folded wings 
On crowded carcasses, — sad, passive things 
That wore the thin gray surface like a veil, 
Over the calmness of their features pale. 

And there were spring-faced cherubs that did sleep 

Like water-lilies on that motionless deep, — 

How beautiful ! with bright unruffled hair 

On sleek unfretted brows, and eyes that were 

Buried in marble tombs, a pale eclipse ! 

And smile-bedimpled cheeks, and pleasant lips, 

Meekly apart, as if the soul intense 

Spake out in dreams of its own innocence : 

And so they lay in loveliness, and kept 

The birth-night of their peace, that Life even wept 

With very envy of their happy fronts ; 

For there were neighbor brows scarred by the brunts 

Of strife and sorrowing — where Care had set 

His crooked autograph, and marred the jet 

Of glossy locks — with hollow eyes forlorn, 

And lips that curled in bitterness and scorn — 

Wretched, — as they had breathed of the world's pain, 

And so bequeathed it to the world again, 

Through the beholder's heart, in heavy sighs. 

So lay they garmented in torpid light, 

Under the pall of a transparent night, 

Like solemn apparitions lulled sublime 

To everlasting rest, — and with them Time 

Slept, as he sleeps upon the silent face 

Of a dark dial in a sunless place. 



REFLECTIVE. 451 

THE FALL OF THE LEAF. 

JOHN RUSKIN. 

If ever, in autumn, a pensiveness falls upon us as 
the leaves drift by in their fading, may we not wisely 
look up in hope to their mighty monuments ? Behold 
how fair, how far prolonged in arch and aisle, the ave- 
nues of the valleys, the fringes of the hills ! So stately, 
so eternal,— the joy of man, the comfort of all living 
creatures, the glory of the earth, — they are but the 
monuments of those poor leaves that flit faintly past us 
to die. Let them not pass without our understanding 
their last counsel and example,— that we also, careless 
of monument by the grave, may build it in the world — 
[a] monument by which men may be taught to remem- 
ber, not where we died, but where we lived. 



CONTRASTED VIEWS. 

W. WORDSWORTH. 

We safely may affirm that human life 

Is either fair and tempting, — a soft scene, 

Grateful to sight, refreshing to the soul, — 

Or a forbidden tract of cheerless view ; 

Even as the same is looked at or approached. 

Thus, when in changeful April, fields are white 

With new-fallen snow, if from the sullen north 

Your walk conduct you hither, ere the sun 

Hath gained his noontide height, this churchyard, filled 

With mounds transversely lying side by side 

From east to west, before you will appear 

An unillumined, blank, and dreary plain, 



452 SELECTIONS. 

With more than wintry cheerlessness and gloom 
Saddening the heart. Go forward, and look back 
Look, from the quarter whence the lord of light, 
Of life, of love and gladness doth dispense 
His beams, which, unexcluded in their fall, 
Upon the southern side of every grave 
Have gently exercised a melting power ; 
Then will a vernal prospect greet your eye, 
All fresh and beautiful, and green and bright, 
Hopeful and cheerful : — vanished is the pall 
That overspread and chilled the sacred turf, — 
Vanished or hidden ; and the whole domain, 
To some, too lightly minded, might appear 
A meadow carpet for the dancing hours. 
This contrast, not unsuitable to life, 
Is to that other state more apposite, 
Death and its twofold aspect ! wintry, one, — 
Cold, sullen, blank, from hope and joy shut out ; 
The other, which the ray divine hath touched, 
Replete with vivid promise, bright as spring. 



MAN'S INHUMANITY TO MAN. 

WILLIAM COWPER. 

There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart : 
It does not feel for man ; the natural bond 
Of brotherhood is severed, as the flax 
That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin 
Not colored like his own, and having power 
To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. 
Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
Abhor each other. Mountains interposed, 
Make enemies of nations, who had else 



REFLECTIVE. 453 

Like kindred drops been mingled into one. 
Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys ; 
And worse than all, and most to be deplored 
As human Nature's broadest, foulest blot, 
Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 
With stripes that Mercy with a bleeding heart 
Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. 
Then what is man ? And what man seeing this, 
And having human feelings, does not blush, 
And hang his head, to think himself a man ? 
I would not have a slave to till my ground, 
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. 
No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 
Just estimation prized above all price, 
I had much rather be myself the slave, 
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 



God never meant that man should scale the heavens 
By strides of human wisdom. In His works, 
Though wondrous, he commands us in his Word 
To seek him rather where his mercy shines. 
The mind indeed, enlightened from above, 
Views him in all ; ascribes to the grand cause 
The grand effect ; acknowledges with joy 
His manner, and with rapture tastes his style. 
But never yet did philosophic tube, 
That brings the planets home into the eye 
Of observation, and discovers, else 
Not visible, His family of worlds, 
Discover him that rules them : such a veil 
Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth, 
And dark in things divine. Full often too 
Our wayward intellect, the more we learn 
Of nature, overlooks her Author more ; 
From instrumental causes proud to draw 



454 SELECTIONS. 

Conclusions retrograde, and mad mistake. 

But if his Word once teach us, shoot a ray 

Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal 

Truths undiscerned but by that holy light, 

Then all is plain. Philosophy baptized 

In the pure fountain of eternal love 

Has eyes indeed ; and viewing all she sees', 

As meant to indicate a God to man, 

Gives Him his praise, and forfeits not her own. 



The only amaranthine flower on earth 

Is virtue ; the only lasting treasure, truth. 

But what is truth ? 'T was Pilate's question put 

To Truth itself, that deigned him no reply. 

And wherefore ? will not God impart his light 

To them that ask it? — Freely — 'tis his joy, 

His glory, and his nature to impart. 

But to the proud, uncandid, insincere, . 

Or negligent inquirer, not a spark. 

What 's that which brings contempt upon a book, 

And him who writes it, though the style be neat, 

The method clear, and argument exact ? 

That makes a minister in holy things 

The joy of many, and the dread of more, 

His name a theme for praise and for reproach ? 

That while it gives us worth in God's account, 

Depreciates and undoes us in our own ? 

What pearl is it that rich men cannot buy, 

That learning is too proud to gather up, 

But which the poor, and the despised of all 

Seek and obtain, and often find unsought ? 

Tell me, and I will tell thee what is truth. 

O friendly to the best pursuits of man, 

Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, 

Domestic life in rural pleasures passed ! 

Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets, 

Though many boast thy favors, and affect 

To understand and choose thee for thetr own. 



REFLECTIVE. 455 



LETTER ON MORNING.— TO MRS. J. W. PAIGE. 

Richmond, Va. , 
Five o'clock, a. m., April 29, 1852. 
My Dear Friend, — 

Whether it be a favor or an annoyance, you owe 
this letter to my early habits of rising. From the hour 
marked at the top of the page, you will naturally con- 
clude that my companions are not now engaging my 
attention, as we have not calculated on being early 
travelers to-day. 

This city has a "pleasant seat." It is high; the 
James River runs below it, and when I went out, an 
hour ago, nothing was heard but the roar of the Falls. 
The air is tranquil, and its temperature mild. It is 
morning, — and a morning sweet and fresh, and delight- 
ful. Everybody knows the morning in its metaphorical 
sense, applied to so many occasions. The health, 
strength, and beauty of early years, lead us to call that 
period the "morning of life." Of a lovely young 
woman we say she is " bright as the morning," and no 
one doubts why Lucifer is called " son of the morning." 

But the morning itself, few people, inhabitants of 
cities, know anything about. Among all our good 
people, no one in a thousand sees the sun rise once in a 
year. They know nothing of the morning ; their idea 
of it is, that it is that part of the day which comes 
along after a cup of coffee and a beefsteak, or a piece of 
toast. With them morning is not a new issuing of 
light, — a new bursting forth of the sun, — a new waking 
up of all that has life, from a sort of temporary death, 
to behold again the works of God, — the heavens and 



456 SELECTIONS. 

the earth ; it is only a part of the domestic day, belong- 
ing, to reading the newspapers, answering notes, sending 
the children to school, and giving orders for dinner. 
The first streak of light, the earliest purpling of the 
east, which the lark springs up to greet, and the deeper 
and deeper coloring into orange and red, till at length 
the "glorious sun is seen, regent of the day, " — this they 
never enjoy ; for they never see it. 

Beautiful descriptions of the morning abound in all 
languages, but they are the strongest perhaps in the 
East, where the sun is often an object of worship. 

King David speaks of taking to himself the " wings 
of the morning." This is highly poetical and beautiful. 
The wings of the morning are the beams of the rising 
sun. Rays of light are wings. It is thus said that the 
sun of righteousness shall arise ' ' with healing in his 
wings," — a rising sun that shall scatter life, health, and 
joy through the universe. 

Milton has fine descriptions of morning, but not so 
many as Shakespeare, from whose writings pages of the 
most beautiful imagery, all founded on the glory of morn- 
ing, might be filled. . . . 

The manifestations of the power of God, like his 
mercies, are "new every morning," and fresh every 
moment. 

We see as fine risings of the sun as ever Adam saw ; 
and its risings are as much a miracle now as they were 
in his day, and I think a good deal more, because it is 
now a part of the miracle, that for thousands and 
thousands of years he has come to his appointed time, 
without the variation of the millionth part of a second. 
Adam could not tell how this might be. I know the 



REFLECTIVE. 457 

morning — I am acquainted with it, and I love it. I 
love it fresh and sweet as it is — a daily new creation, 
breaking forth, and calling all that have life and breath 
and being to new adoration, new enjoyments, and 
new gratitude. Daniel Webster. 



"ONLY A YEAR." 

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE 
From Religious Poems. 

One year ago, — a ringing voice, 

A clear blue eye, 
And clustering curls of sunny hair, 

Too fair to die. 

Only a year, — no voice, no smile, 

No glance of eye, 
No clustering curls of golden hair, 

Fair but to die ! 

One year ago, — what loves, what schemes, 

Far into life ! 
What joyous hopes, what high resolves, 

What generous strife ! 

The silent picture on the wall, 

The burial stone, 
Of all that beauty, life, and joy 

Remain alone ! 



One year, — one year — one little year, 

And so much gone ! 
And yet the even flow of life 

Moves calmly on. 



458 SELECTIONS. 



The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair, 

Above that head ; 
No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray 

Says he is dead. 

No pause or hush of merry birds, 

That sing above, 
Tells us how coldly sleeps below 

The form we loved. 



Lord of the living and the dead, 

Our Savior dear ! 
We lay in silence at thy feet 

This sad, sad year ! 



MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS AT SEA. 

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 

Borne upon the ocean's foam, 
Far from native land and home, 
Midnight's curtain, dense with wrath, 
Brooding o'er our venturous path, 
While the mountain wave is rolling, 
And the ship's bell faintly tolling, — 
Savior ! on the boisterous sea, 
Bid us rest secure in thee. 

Blast and surge, conflicting hoarse, 
Sweep us on with headlong force ; 
And the bark, which tempests surge, 
Moans and trembles at their scourge : 
Yet, should wildest tempests swell, 
Be Thou near, and all is well. 
Savior ! on the stormy sea, 
Let us find repose in thee. 



REFLECTIVE. 459 

Hearts there are with love that burn 
When to us afar they turn ; 
Eyes that show the rushing tear 
If our uttered names they hear. 
Savior ! o'er the faithless main 
Bring us to those homes again, 
As the trembler, touched by thee, 
Safely trod the treacherous sea. 

Wrecks are darkly spread below, 
Where with lonely keel we go ; 
Gentle brows and bosoms brave 
Those abysses richly pave : 
If beneath the briny deep 
We, with them, should coldly sleep, 
Savior ! o'er the whelming sea, 
Take our ransomed souls to thee. 



FROM THE SERMON ON AUTUMN. 

REV. ARCHIBALD ALISON. 

There is an eventide in the day — an hour when the 
sun retires, and the shadows fall, and when nature 
assumes the appearances of soberness and silence. It 
is an hour from which everywhere the thoughtless fly, as 
peopled only in their imagination with images of gloom ; 
it is the hour, on the other hand, which, in every age, 
the wise have loved, as bringing with it sentiments 
and affections more valuable than all the splendors of 
the day. 

Its first impression is to still all the turbulence of 
thought or passion which the day may have brought 
forth. We follow with our eye the descending sun ; we 



460 SELECTIONS. 

listen to the decaying sounds of labor and of toil ; and, 
when all the fields are silent around us, we feel a kin- 
dred stillness to breathe upon our souls, and to calm 
them from the agitations of society. From this first 
impression there is a second which naturally follows it : 
in the day we are living with men, in the eventide we 
begin to live with nature ; we see the world withdrawn 
from us, the shades of night darken over the habitations 
of men, and we feel ourselves alone. It is an hour 
fitted, as it would seem, by him who made us, to still, 
but with gentle hand, the throb of every unruly passion, 
and the ardor of every impure desire ; and, while it 
veils for a time the world that misleads us, to awaken in 
our hearts those legitimate affections which the heat of 
the day may have dissolved. There is yet a further 
scene it presents to us. While the world withdraws 
from us, and while the shades of the evening darken 
upon our dwellings, the splendors of the firmament 
come forward to our view. In the moments when 
earth is overshadowed, heaven opens to our eyes the 
radiance of a sublimer being ; our hearts follow the suc- 
cessive splendors of the scene ; and while we forget for 
a time the obscurity of earthly concerns, we feel that 
there are "yet greater things than these." 

There is, in the second place, an "eventide" in the 
year, — a season, as we now witness, when the sun with- 
draws his propitious light, when the winds arise, and the 
leaves fall, and nature around us seems to sink into 
decay. It is said, in general, to be the season of mel- 
ancholy ; and if by this word be meant that it is the 
time of solemn and of serious thought, it is undoubt- 
edly the season of melancholy ; yet it is a melancholy 



REFLECTIVE. 461 

so soothing, so gentle in its approach, and so prophetic 
in its influence, that they who have known it, feel, as 
instinctively, that it is the doing of God, and that the 
heart of man is not thus finely touched but to fine issues. 

When we go out into the fields in the evening of the 
year, a different voice approaches us. We regard, even 
in spite of ourselves, the still but steady advances of 
time. A few days ago, and the summer of the year was 
grateful, and every element was filled with life, and the 
sun of heaven seemed to glory in his ascendant. He is 
now enfeebled in his power ; the desert no more " blos- 
soms like the rose ;" the song of joy is no more heard 
among the branches ; and the earth is strewed with that 
foliage which once bespoke the magnificence of summer. 
Whatever may be the passions which society has awa- 
kened, we pause amid this apparent desolation of nature. 
We sit down in the lodge ' ' of the wayfaring man in the 
wilderness," and we feel that all we witness is the 
emblem of our own fate. Such also in a few years will 
be our own condition. The blossoms of our spring, the 
pride of our summer, will also fade into decay ; and the 
pulse that now beats high with virtuous or with vicious 
desire, will gradually sink, and then must stop forever. 
We rise from our meditations with hearts softened and 
subdued, and we return into life as into a shadowy 
scene, where we have "disquieted ourselves in vain." 

Yet a few years, we think, and all that now bless, or 
all that now convulse humanity will also have perished. 
The mightiest pageantry of life will pass ; the loudest 
notes of triumph or of conquest will be silent in the 
grave ; the wicked, wherever active, will ' ' cease from 
troubling," and the weary, wherever suffering, will "be 



462 SELECTIONS. 

at rest." Under an impression so profound, we feel our 
own hearts better. The cares, the animosities, the 
hatreds, which society may have engendered, sink unper- 
ceived from our bosoms. In the general desolation of 
nature we feel the littleness of our own passions ; we 
look forward to that kindred evening which time must 
bring to all ; we anticipate the graves of those we hate, 
as of those we love. Every unkind passion falls with 
the leaves that fall around us ; and we return slowly to 
our homes, and to the society which surrounds us, with 
the wish only to enlighten or to bless them. 



THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

A mighty Hand, from an exhaustless Urn, 
Pours forth the never-ending Flood of Years, 
Among the nations. How the rushing waves 
Bear all before them ! On their foremost edge, 
And there alone, is Life. The Present there 
Tosses and foams, and fills the air with roar 
Of mingled noises. There are they who toil, 
And they who strive, and they who feast, and they 
Who hurry to and fro. The sturdy swain — 
Woodman, and delver with the spade — is there, 
And busy artisan beside his bench, 
And pallid student with his written roll. 
A moment on the mounting billow seen, 
The flood sweeps over them, and they are gone. 
There groups of revelers whose brows are twined 
With roses, ride the topmost swell awhile, 
And as they raise their flowing cups, and touch 
The clinking brim to brim, are whirled beneath 



REFLECTIVE. 463 

The waves and disappear. I hear the jar 

Of beaten drums, and thunders that break forth 

From cannon, where the advancing billow sends 

Up to the sight long files of armed men, 

That hurry to the charge through flame and smoke. 

The torrent bears them under, whelmed and hid, 

Slayer and slain, in heaps of bloody foam. 

Down go the steed and rider, the plumed chief 

Sinks with his followers ; the head that wears 

The imperial diadem goes down beside 

The felon's with cropped ear and branded cheek. 

A funeral train ! — the torrent sweeps away 

Bearers and bier and mourners. By the bed 

Of one who dies, men gather sorrowing, 

And women weep aloud ; the flood rolls on ; 

The wail is stifled, and the sobbing group 

Borne under. Hark to that shrill, sudden shout, — 

The cry of an applauding multitude, 

Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wields 

The living mass as if he were its soul ! 

The waters choke the shout, and all is still. 

Lo ! next a kneeling crowd, and one who spreads 

The hands in prayer ; — the engulfing wave o'ertakes 

And swallows them and him. A sculptor wields 

The chisel, and the stricken marble grows 

To beauty ; at his easel, eager-eyed, 

A painter stands, and sunshine at his touch 

Gathers upon his canvas, and life glows ; 

A poet, as he paces to and fro, 

Murmurs his sounding lines. Awhile they ride 

The advancing billow, till its tossing crest 

Strikes them and flings them under, while their tasks 

Are yet unfinished. See a mother smile 

On her young babe, that smiles to her again ; 

The torrent wrests it from her arms ; she shrieks 

And weeps, and midst her tears is carried down. 

A beam like that of moonlight turns the spray 



464 SELECTIONS. 

To glistening pearls ; two lovers, hand in hand, 

Rise on the billowy swell, and fondly look 

Into each other's eyes. The rushing flood 

Flings them apart : the youth goes down ; the maid 

With hands outstretched in vain, and streaming eyes, 

Waits for the next high wave, to follow him. 

An aged man succeeds ; his bending form 

Sinks slowly. Mingling with the sullen stream 

Gleam the white locks, and then are seen no more. 

Lo ! wider grows the stream ; — a sea-like flood 
Saps earth's walled cities ; massive palaces 
Crumble before it ; fortresses and towers 
Dissolve in the swift waters ; populous realms 
Swept by the torrent see their ancient tribes 
Engulfed and lost ; their very languages 
Stifled, and never to be uttered more. 

I pause, and turn my eyes, and looking back 
Where that tumultuous flood has been, I see 
The silent ocean of the Past, a waste 
Of waters weltering over graves, its shores 
Strewn with the wreck of fleets where mast and hull 
Drop away piecemeal ; battlemented walls 
Frown idly, green with moss, and temples stand 
Unroofed, forsaken by the worshiper. 
There lie memorial stones, whence time has gnawed 
The graven legends, thrones of kings o'erturned, 
The broken altars of forgotten gods, 
Foundations of old cities, and long streets 
Where never fall of human foot is heard, 
On all the desolate pavement. I behold 
Dim glimmerings of lost jewels, far within 
The sleeping waters, — diamond, sardonyx, 
Ruby and topaz, pearl and chrysolite, 
Once glittering at the banquet on fair brows 
That long ago were dust ; and all around, 
Strewn on the surface of that silent sea, 



REFLECTIVE. 4:65 

Are withering bridal wreaths, and glossy locks 
Shorn from dear brows by loving hands, and scrolls 
O'erwritten, haply with fond words of love 
And vows of friendship, and fair pages flung 
Fresh from the printer's engine. There they lie 
A moment, and then sink away from sight. 

I look, and the quick tears are in my eyes ; 
For I behold in every one of these 
A blighted hope, a separate history 
Of human sorrows, telling of dear ties 
Suddenly broken, dreams of happiness 
Dissolved in air, and happy days too brief 
That sorrowfully ended, and I think 
How painfully must the poor heart have beat 
In bosoms without number, as the blow 
Was struck that slew their hope and broke their peace. 

Sadly I turn and look before, where yet 
The Flood must pass, and I behold a mist 
Where swarm dissolving forms, the brood of Hope 
Divinely fair, that rest on banks of flowers, 
Or wander among rainbows, fading soon 
And reappearing, haply giving place 
To forms of grisly aspect such as Fear 
Shapes from the idle air — where serpents lift 
The head to strike, and skeletons stretch forth 
The bony arm in menace. Further on, 
A belt of darkness seems to bar the way — 
Long, low, and distant, where the Life to come 
Touches the Life that is. The Flood of Years 
Rolls toward it near and nearer. It must pass 
That dismal barrier. What is there beyond ? 
Hear what the wise and good have said. Beyond 
That belt of darkness, still the years roll on 
More gently, but with not less mighty sweep. 
They gather up again and softly bear 
All the sweet lives that late were overwhelmed 

30 



466 SELECTIONS. 

And lost to sight, — all that in them was good, 

Noble, and truly great, and worthy of love, — 

The lives of infants and ingenuous youths, 

Sages, and saintly women who have made 

Their households happy ; all are raised and borne 

By that great current in its onward sweep, 

Wandering and rippling with caressing waves 

Around green islands with the breath 

Of flowers that never wither. So they pass 

From stage to stage along the shining course 

Of that bright river, broadening like a sea. 

As its smooth eddies curl along their way, 

They bring old friends together ; hands are clasped 

In joy unspeakable ; the mother's arms 

Again are folded round the child she loved 

And lost. Old sorrows are forgotten now, 

Or but remembered to make sweet the hour 

That overpays them ; wounded hearts that bled 

Or broke, are healed forever. In the room 

Of this grief-shadowed present, there shall be 

A Present in whose reign no grief shall gnaw 

The heart, and never shall a tender tie 

Be broken ; in whose reign the eternal Change 

That waits on growth and action shall proceed 

With everlasting Concord hand in hand. 



" DOWN TO SLEEP." 

HELEN HUNT. 

November woods are bare and still ; 
November days are clear and bright ; 
Each noon burns up the morning's chill ; 
The morning's snow is gone by night ; 
Each day my steps grow slow, grow light, 
As through the woods I reverent creep, 
Watching all things lie " down to sleep.' 



REFLECTIVE. 467 

I never knew before what beds, 

Fragrant to smell and soft to touch, 

The forest sifts, and shapes, and spreads : 

I never knew before how much 

Of human sound there is in such 

Low tones as through the forest sweep 

When all wild things lie " down to sleep." 

Each day I find new coverlids 

Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight ; 

Sometimes the viewless mother bids 

Her ferns kneel down, full in my sight ; 

I hear their chorus of "good night.*' 

And half I smile, and half I weep, 

Listening while they lie " down to sleep.'' 

November woods are bare and still ; 
November days are bright and good ; 
Life's noon burns up life's morning chill ; 
Life's night rests feet which long have stood ; 
Some warm, soft bed, in field or wood, 
The mother will not fail to keep, 
Where we can lay us " down to sleep." 



COURAGE. 

CELIA THAXTER. 

Because I hold it sinful to despond, 

And will not let the bitterness of life 
Blind me with burning tears, but look beyond 

Its tumult and its strife ; 

Because I lift my head above the mist, 

Where the sun shines, and the broad breezes blow. 
By every ray and every raindrop kissed 

That God's love doth bestow ; — 



468 SELECTIONS. 

Think you I find no bitterness at all ? 

No burden to be borne, like Christian's pack ? 
Think you there are no ready tears to fall, 

Because I keep them back ? 

Why should I hug life's ills with cold reserve, 
To curse myself and all who love me ? Nay ! 

A thousand times more good than I deserve 
God gives me every day. 

And in each one of these rebellious tears 

Kept bravely back, he makes a rainbow shine ; 

Grateful I take his slightest gift : no fears 
Nor any doubts are mine. 

Dark skies must clear, and when the clouds are past, 
One weary day redeems a weary year ; 

Patient I listen, sure that sweet at last 
Will sound His voice of cheer. 

Then vex me not with chiding. Let me be. 

I must be glad and grateful to the end. 
I grudge you not your cold and darkness : me 

The powers of light befriend. 



CHAPTER NINE. 



Miscellaneous. 

TRAVELS IN PALESTINE. 

BAYARD TAYLOR. 

The road crosses the hill behind the city, .between 
the Forest of Pines and a long track of red sand-hills 
next the sea. It was a lovely morning, not too bright 
and hot, for light fleecy vapors hung along the sides of 
Lebanon. Beyond the mulberry orchards, we entered 
on wild, half-cultivated tracts, covered with a bewilder- 
ing maze of blossoms. The hillside and stony shelves 
of soil overhanging the sea fairly blazed with the 
brilliant dots of color which were rained upon them. 
The pink, the broom, the poppy, the speedwell, the 
lupin, . . . and a number of unknown plants dazzled 
the eye with their profusion, and loaded the air with 
fragrance as rare as it was unfailing. Here and there, 
clear, swift rivulets came down from Lebanon, coursing 
their way between thickets of blooming oleanders. Just 
before crossing the little river Damoor, Francois pointed 
out on one of the distant heights, the residence of the 
late Lady Hester Stanhope. During the afternoon we 
crossed several offshoots of the Lebanon, by paths 
incredibly steep and stony, and toward evening reached 
Saida, the ancient Sidon, where we obtained permission 
to pitch our tent in a garden. The town is built on a 

[469] 



470 SELECTIONS. 

narrow point of land, jutting out from the center of a 
bay, or curve in the coast, and contains about five 
thousand inhabitants. It is a quiet, sleepy sort of 
place, and contains nothing of the old Sidon except a 
few stones and the fragments of a mole, extending into 
the sea. The fortress in the water, and the Citadel, are 
remnants of Venetian sway. The clouds gathered after 
nightfall, and occasionally there was a dash of rain on 
our tent. But I heard it with the same quiet happiness, 
as when, in boyhood, sleeping beneath the rafters, I 
have heard the rain beating all night upon the roof. I 
breathed the sweet breath of the grasses whereon my 
carpet was spread, and old Mother Earth, welcoming me 
back to her bosom, cradled me into calm and refreshing 
sleep. There is no rest more grateful than that which 
we take on the turf or the sand, except the rest 
below it. 

We rose in a dark and cloudy morning, and continued 
our way between fields of barley, completely stained with 
the bloody hue of the poppy, and meadows turned into 
golden mosaic by a brilliant yellow daisy. Until noon 
our road was over a region of alternate meadow-land 
and gentle though stony elevations, making out from 
Lebanon. We met continually with indications of 
ancient power and prosperity. The ground was strewn 
with hewn blocks, and the foundations' of buildings 
remain in many places. Broken sarcophagi lie half- 
buried in grass, and the gray rocks of the hills are 
pierced with tombs. The soil, though stony, appeared 
to be naturally fertile, and the crops of wheat, barley, 
and lentils were very flourishing. After rounding the 
promontory which forms the southern boundary of the 



MISCELLANEOUS. 471 

Gulf of Sidon, we rode for an hour or two over a plain 
near the sea, and then came down to a valley which ran 
up among the hills, terminating in a natural amphi- 
theater. An ancient barrow, or tumulus, nobody knows 
of whom, stands near the sea. During the day I noticed 
two charming little pictures. One, a fountain gushing 
into a broad square basin cf masonry, shaded by three 
branching cypresses. Two Turks sat on its edge, eating 
their bread and curdled milk, while their horses drank 
out of the stone trough below. The other, an old 
Mohammedan, with a green turban and white robe, 
seated at the foot of a majestic sycamore, over the high 
bank of a stream that tumbled down its bed of white 
marble rock to the sea. 

The plain back of the narrow, sandy promontory on 
which the modern Soor is built, is a rich black loam, 
which a little proper culture would turn into a very gar- 
den. It helped me to account for the wealth of ancient 
Tyre. The approach to the town, along a beach on 
which the surf broke with a continuous roar, with the 
wreck of a Greek vessel in the foreground, and a stormy 
sky behind, was very striking. It was a wild, bleak 
picture, the white minarets of the town standing out 
spectrally against the clouds. We rode up the sand- 
hills back of the town, and selected a good camping- 
place among the ruins of Tyre. Near us there was an 
ancient square building, now used as a cistern, and filled 
with excellent fresh water. The surf roared tremen- 
dously on the rocks, on either hand, and the boom of 
the more distant breakers came to my ear like the wind 
in a pine forest. The remains of the ancient sea-wall 
are still to be traced for the entire circuit of the city, 



472 SELECTIONS. 

and the heavy surf breaks upon piles of shattered gran- 
ite columns. There were half a dozen small coasting 
vessels lying in the road,, but the old harbors are 
entirely destroyed. Isaiah's prophecy is literally ful- 
filled : " Howl, ye ships of Tarshish ; for it is laid 
waste, so that there is no house, no entering in." 

We set out from Tyre at an early hour, and rode 
along the beach around the head of the bay to the 
Rasel-Abiad, the ancient Promontorium Album. The 
morning was wild and cloudy, with gleams of sunshine 
that flashed out over the dark violet gloom of the sea. 
The surf was magnificent, rolling up in grand billows,, 
which broke and formed again, till the last of the long, 
falling fringes of snow slid seething up the sand. Some- 
thing of ancient power was in their shock and roar, and 
every great wave that plunged and drew back again, 
called in its solemn bass: ''Where are the ships of 
Tyre? where are the ships of Tyre ? " I looked back on 
the city, which Stood advanced far into the sea, her feet 
bathed in thunderous spray. By and by the clouds 
cleared away, the sun came out bold and bright, and 
our road left the beach for a meadowy plain, crossed by 
fresh streams, and sown with an inexhaustible wealth of 
flowers. Through thickets of myrtle and mastic, around 
which the rue and lavender grew in dense clusters, we 
reached the foot of the mountain, and began ascending 
the celebrated Ladder of Tyre. The road is so steep as 
to resemble a staircase, and climbs along the side of a 
promontory, hanging over precipices of naked white 
rock, in some places three hundred feet in height. The 
,mountain is a mass of magnesian limestone, with occa- 
sional beds of marble. The surf has worn its foot into 



MISCELLANEOUS. 473 

hollow caverns, into which the sea rushes with a dull, 
heavy boom, like distant thunder. The sides are 
covered with thickets of broom, myrtle, arbutus, ilex, 
mastic, and laurel, overgrown with woodbine, and inter- 
spersed with patches of sage, lavender, hyssop, wild 
thyme, and rue. The whole mountain is a heap of 
balm, — a bundle of sweet spices. 



THE WORLD WAS MADE WITH A BENEVO= 
LENT DESIGN. 

DR. PALEY. 

It is a happy world after all. The air, the earth, 
the water, teem with delighted existence. In a spring 
noon or a summer evening, on whichever side I turn my 
eyes, myriads of happy beings crowd upon my view. 
"The insect youth are on the wing." Swarms of new- 
born flies are trying their pinions in the air. Their 
sportive motions, their wanton mazes, their gratuitous 
activity, their continual change of place without use or 
purpose, testify their joy and the exultation which they 
feel in their lately discovered faculties. A bee amongst 
the flowers in spring is one of the most cheerful objects 
that can be looked upon. Its life appears to be all 
enjoyment ; so busy and so pleased : yet is it only a 
specimen of insect life, with which, by reason of the 
animal being half domesticated, we happen to be better 
acquainted than we are with that of others. The whole 
winged insect tribe, it is probable, are equally intent 
upon their proper employments, and, under every variety 



474 SELECTIONS. 

of constitution, gratified, and perhaps equally gratified, 
by the offices which the Author of their nature has 
assigned to them. But the atmosphere is not the only 
scene of enjoyment for the insect race. Plants are cov- 
ered with aphides, greedily sucking their juices, and 
constantly, as it should seem, in the act of sucking. It 
cannot be doubted that this is a state of gratification : 
what else should fix them so close to the operation and 
so long ? Other species are running about with an alac- 
rity in their motions which carries with it every mark of 
pleasure. Large patches of ground are sometimes half 
covered with these brisk and sprightly natures. If we 
look to what the waters produce, shoals of the fry of fish 
frequent the margins of rivers, of lakes, and of the sea 
itself. These are so happy that they know not what to 
do with themselves. Their attitudes, their vivacity, their 
leaps out of the water, their frolics in it, which I have 
noticed a thousand times with equal attention and amuse- 
ment, — all conduce to show their excess of spirits, and 
are simply the effects of that excess. Walking by the sea- 
side in a calm evening, upon a sandy shore and with an 
ebbing tide, I have frequently remarked the appearance 
of a dark cloud, or rather very thick mist, hanging over 
the edge of the water, to the height, perhaps, of half a 
yard, and of the breadth of two or three yards, stretch- 
ing along the coast as far as the eye could reach, and 
always retiring with the water. When this cloud came 
to be examined, it proved to be nothing else than so 
much space filled with young shrimps in the act of 
bounding into the air from the shallow margin of the 
water, or from the wet sand. If any motion of a mute 
animal could express delight, it was this ; if they had 



MISCELLANEOUS. 475 

meant to make signs of their happiness, they could not 
have done it more intelligibly. Suppose, then, what I 
have no doubt of, each individual of this number to be 
in a state of positive enjoyment ; what a sum, collect- 
ively, of gratification and pleasure have we here before 



our view 



The young of all animals appear to me to receive 
pleasure simply from the exercise of their limbs and 
bodily faculties, without reference to any end to be 
attained, or any use to be answered by the exertion. A 
child, without knowing anything of the use of language, 
is in a high degree delighted with being able to speak. 
Its incessant repetition of a few articulate sounds, or 
perhaps of the single word which it has learned to pro- 
nounce, proves this point clearly. Nor is it less pleased 
with its first successful endeavors to walk, or rather to 
run, which precedes walking, although entirely ignorant 
of the importance of the attainment to its future life, 
and even without applying it to any present purpose. A 
child is delighted with speaking, without having any- 
thing to say ; and with walking, without knowing where 
to go. And, prior to both these, I am disposed to 
believe- that the waking-hours of infancy are agreeably 
taken up with the exercise of vision, or perhaps, more 
properly speaking, with learning to see. 



4:76 SELECTIONS. 



QUACK ADVERTISEMENTS. 

SIR RICHARD STEELE. 

It gives me much despair in the design of reforming 
the world by my speculations, when I find there always 
arise, from one generation to another, successive cheats 
and bubbles, as naturally as beasts of prey and those 
which are to be their food. There is hardly a man in 
the world, one would think, so ignorant as not to know 
that the ordinary quack-doctors, who publish their 
abilities in little brown billets, distributed to all who 
pass by, are, to a man, impostors and murderers ; yet 
such is the credulity of the vulgar, and the impudence 
of these professors, that the affair still goes on, and new 
promises of what was never done before are made every 
day. What aggravates the jest is, that even this 
promise has been made as long as the memory of man 
can trace it, and yet nothing performed, and yet still 
prevails. 

There is something unaccountably taking among the 
vulgar in those who come from a great way off. Ignorant 
people of quality, as many there are of such, dote excess- 
ively this way ; many instances of which every man will 
suggest to himself, without my enumeration of them. 
The ignorants of lower order, who cannot, like the 
upper ones, be profuse of their money to those recom- 
mended by coming from a distance, are no less com- 
plaisant than the others ; for they venture their lives 
for the same admiration. 

"The doctor is lately come from his travels, and 
has practised l)oth by sea and land, and therefore cures 



MISCELLANEOUS. 477 

the green-sickness, long sea-voyages, and campaigns." 
Both by sea and land ! I will not answer for the 
distempers called "sea-voyages, and campaigns," but 
I dare say [that] that of green-sickness might be as well 
taken care of if the doctor stayed ashore. But the art 
of managing mankind is only to make them stare a little 
to keep up their astonishment ; to let nothing be familiar 
to them, but ever to have something in their sleeve, in 
which they must think you are deeper than they are. 
You may be sure it is upon that I go, when, sometimes, 
let it be to the purpose or not, I keep a Latin sentence 
in my front ; and I was not a little pleased when I 
observed one of my readers say, casting his eye on my 
twentieth paper, ' ' More Latin still ? What a prodigious 
scholar is this man ! " But as I have here taken much 
liberty with this learned doctor, I must make up all I 
have said by repeating what he seems to be in earnest 
in, and honestly [to] promise to those who will not 
receive him as a great man ; to wit, That from eight to 
twelve, and from two to six, he attends for the good of 
the public to bleed for threepence. 



SECURITY OF OUR BEST BLESSINGS. 

BOLINGBROKE. 

Believe me, the providence of God has established 
such an order in the world, that of all which belongs to 
us, the least valuable parts can alone fall under the will 
of others. Whatever is best is safest, lies most out of 
the reach of human power, can neither be given nor 
taken away. Such is this great and beautiful work of 



478 SELECTIONS. 

nature — the world. Such is the mind of man, which 
contemplates and admires the world, where it makes the 
noblest part. These are inseparably ours ; and as long 
as we remain in one, we shall enjoy the other. Let us 
march, therefore, intrepidly, wherever we are led by the 
course of human accidents. Wherever they lead us, on 
what coast soever we are thrown by them, we shall not 
find ourselves absolutely strangers. We shall meet with 
men and women, creatures of the same figure, endowed 
with the same faculties, and born under the same laws 
of nature. We shall see the same virtues and vices 
flowing from the same general principles, but varied in 
a thousand different and contrary modes, according to 
that infinite variety of laws and customs which is estab- 
lished for the same universal end — the preservation of 
society. We shall feel the same revolutions of seasons ; 
and the same sun and moon will guide the course of our 
year, The same azure vault, bespangled with stars, will 
be everywhere spread over our heads. There is no part 
of the world whence we may not admire those planets, 
which roll, like ours, in different orbits round the same 
central sun ; whence we may not discover an object still 
more stupendous, that army of fixed stars hung up in 
the immense space of the universe, innumerable suns, 
whose beams enlighten and cherish the unknown worlds 
which roll around them ; and whilst I am ravished by 
such contemplations as these, whilst my soul is thus 
raised up to heaven, it imports me little what ground I 
tread upon. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 479 

THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD. 

E. B. BROWNING. 

What 's the best thing in the world ? — 
June-rose, by May-dew impearled ; 
Sweet south-wind, that means no rain ; 
Truth, not cruel to a friend ; 
Pleasure, not in haste to end ; 
Beauty, not self-decked and curled 
Till its pride is over-plain ; 
Light, that never makes you wink ; 
Memory, that gives no pain ; 
Love, when, so, you 're loved again ; — 
What 's the best thing in the world ? 
— Something out of it, I think. 



ON REVENGE. 

DR. JOHNSON. 

A wise man will make haste to forgive, because he 
knows the true value of time, and will not suffer it to 
pass away in unnecessary pain. He that willingly suf- 
fers the corrosions of inveterate hatred, and gives up his 
days and nights to the gloom and malice and perturba- 
tions of stratagem, cannot surely be said to consult his 
ease. Resentment is a union of sorrow with malignity, 
— a combination of a passion which all endeavor to 
avoid, with a passion which all concur to detest. The 
man who retires to meditate mischief, and to exasperate 
his own rage ; whose thoughts are employed only on 
means of distress and contrivances of ruin ; whose mind 
never pauses from the remembrance of his own suffer- 



480 SELECTIONS. 

ings, but to indulge some hope of enjoying the calami- 
ties of another — may justly be numbered among the 
most miserable of human beings, — among those who 
are guilty without reward, who have neither the gladness 
of prosperity nor the calm of innocence. 

Whoever considers the weakness both of himself and 
others, will not long want persuasives to forgiveness. 
We know not to what degree of malignity any injury is 
to be imputed ; or how much its guilt, if we were to 
inspect the mind of him that committed it, would be 
extenuated by mistake, precipitance, or negligence ; we 
cannot be certain how much more we feel than was 
intended to be inflicted, or how much we increase the 
mischief to ourselves by voluntary aggravations. We 
may charge to design the effects of accident ; we may 
think the blow violent only because we have made our- 
selves delicate and tender ; we are on every side in dan- 
ger of error and of guilt, which we are certain to avoid 
only by speedy forgiveness. 

From this pacific and harmless temper, thus propi- 
tious to others and to ourselves, to domestic tranquillity 
and to social happiness, no man is withheld but by 
pride, by the fear of being insulted by his adversary, or 
despised by the world. It may be laid down as an 
unfailing and universal axiom, that "all pride is abject 
and mean." It is always an ignorant, lazy, or cowardly 
acquiescence in a false appearance of excellence, and 
proceeds not from consciousness of our attainments, 
but insensibility of our wants. 

Nothing can be great which is not right. Nothing 
which reason condemns can be suitable to the dignity of 
the human mind. To be driven by external motives 



MISCELLANEOUS. 481 

from the path which our own heart approves, to give 
way to anything but conviction, to suffer the opinion of 
others to rule our choice or overpower our resolves, is to 
submit tamely to the lowest and most ignominious 
slavery, and to resign the right of directing our own 
lives. 

The utmost excellence at which humanity can arrive 
is a constant and determinate pursuit of virtue without 
regard to present dangers or advantages ; a continual 
reference of every action to the divine will ; a habitual 
appeal to everlasting justice ; and an unvaried elevation 
of the intellectual eye to the reward which perseverance 
only can obtain. But that pride which many, who 
presume to boast of generous sentiments, allow to 
regulate their measures, has nothing nobler in view than 
the approbation of men ; of beings whose superiority we 
are under no obligation to acknowledge, and who, when 
we have courted them with the utmost assiduity, can 
confer no valuable or permanent reward ; of beings who 
ignorantly judge of what they do not understand, or 
partially determine what they have never examined ; 
and whose sentence is therefore of no weight, till it has 
received the ratification of our own conscience. 

He that can descend to bribe suffrages like these at 
the price of his innocence, he that can suffer the delight 
of such acclamations to withhold his attention from the 
commands of the universal sovereign — has little reason 
to congratulate himself upon the greatness of his mind ; 
whenever he awakes to seriousness and reflection, he 
must become despicable in his own eyes, and shrink 
with shame from the remembrance of his cowardice 
and folly. 
31 



482 SELECTIONS. 

Of him that hopes to be forgiven, it is indispensably 
required that he forgive. It is therefore superfluous to 
urge any other motive. On this great duty, eternity is 
suspended ; and to him that refuses to practise it, the 
throne of mercy is inaccessible, and the Savior of the 
world has been born in vain. 



FROM THE ESSAY ON HISTORY. 

THOMAS B. MACAULAY. 

History, it has been said, is philosophy teaching by 
examples. Unhappily, what the philosophy gains in 
soundness and depth, the examples generally lose in 
vividness. A perfect historian must possess an imagina- 
tion sufficiently powerful to make his narrative affecting 
and picturesque. Yet he must control it so absolutely 
as to content himself with the materials which he finds, 
and to refrain from supplying deficiencies by additions 
of his own. He must be a profound and ingenious 
reasoner. Yet he must possess sufficient self-command 
to abstain from casting his facts in the mold of his 
hypothesis. Those who can justly estimate these almost 
insuperable difficulties will not think it strange that 
every writer should have failed, either in the narrative 
or in the speculative department of history. 

As the narrative [that of Herodotus] approached 
their own times, the interest became still more absorb- 
ing. The chronicler had now to tell the story of that 
great conflict from which Europe dates its intellectual 



MISCELLANEOUS. 483 

and political supremacy, — a story which, even at this 
distance of time, is the most marvelous and the most 
touching in the annals of the human race, — a story 
abounding in all that is wild and wonderful, with 
all that is pathetic and animating ; with the gigantic 
caprices of infinite wealth and despotic power ; with the 
mightier miracles of wisdom, of virtue, and of courage. 
He told them of rivers dried up in a day, of provinces 
famished for a meal ; of a passage for ships hewn 
through the mountains ; of a road for armies spread 
upon the waves ; of monarchies and commonwealths 
swept away ; of anxiety, of terror, of confusion, of de- 
spair ! — and then of proud and stubborn hearts tried in 
that extremity of evil and not found wanting ; of resist- 
ance long maintained against desperate odds ; of lives 
dearly sold when resistance could be maintained no 
more ; of signal deliverance, and of unsparing revenge. 
Whatever gave a stronger air of reality to a narrative so 
well calculated to inflame the passions and to flatter 
national pride was certain to be favorably received. 



Some capricious and discontented artists have affected 
to consider portrait-painting as unworthy of a man of 
genius. Some critics have spoken in the same con- 
temptuous manner of history. Johnson puts the case 
thus : — The historian tells either what is false or what 
is true. In the former case he is no historian. In the 
latter, he has no opportunity for displaying his abilities. 
For truth is one ; and all who tell the truth must tell 
it alike. 



484: SELECTIONS. 

It is not difficult to elude both the horns of this 
dilemma. We will recur to the analogous art of por- 
trait-painting. Any man with eyes and hands may be 
taught to take a likeness. The process, up to a certain 
point, is merely mechanical. If this were all, a man of 
talents might justly despise the occupation. But we 
could mention portraits which are resemblances, but not 
mere resemblances ; faithful, but much more than faith- 
ful ; portraits which condense into one point of time, 
and exhibit, at a single glance, the whole history of 
turbid and eventful lives ; in which the eye seems to 
scrutinize us, and the mouth to command us ; in which 
the brow menaces, and the lip almost quivers with 
scorn ; in which every wrinkle is a comment on some 
important transaction. The account which Thucydides 
has given of the retreat from Syracuse is, among narra- 
tives, what Vandyck's Lord Strafford is among paintings. 

Diversity, it is said, implies error ; truth is one, and 
admits of no degree. We answer, that this principle 
holds good only in abstract reasonings. When we talk 
of the truth of imitation in the fine arts, we mean an 
imperfect and a graduated truth. No picture is exactly 
like the original ; nor is a picture good in proportion 
as it is like the original. When Sir Thomas Lawrence 
paints a handsome peeress, he does not contemplate her 
through a powerful microscope, and transfer to the can- 
vas the pores of the skin, the blood-vessels of the eye, 
and all the other beauties which Gulliver discovered in 
the Brobdingnagian maids of honor. If he were to do 
this, the effect would not merely be unpleasant, but 
unless the scale of the picture were proportionably 
enlarged, would be absolutely false. And, after all, a 



MISCELLANEOUS. 485 

microscope of greater power than that which he had 
employed, would convict him of innumerable omissions. 
The same may be said of history. Perfectly and abso- 
lutely true, it cannot be ; for, to be perfectly and 
absolutely true, it ought to record all the slightest particu- 
lars of the slightest transactions, — all the things done, 
and all the words uttered, during the time of which it 
treats. The omission of any circumstance, however in- 
significant, would be a defect. If history were written 
thus, the Bodleian library would not contain the occur- 
rences of a week. What is told in the fullest and most 
accurate annals bears an infinitely small proportion to 
what is suppressed. The difference between the copious 
work of Clarendon, and the account of the civil wars 
in the abridgment of Goldsmith, vanishes, when com- 
pared with the immense mass of facts respecting which 
both are equally silent. 

No picture, then, and no history, can present us 
with the whole truth ; but those are the best pictures 
and the best histories which exhibit such parts of the 
truth as most nearly produce the effect of the whole. 
He who is deficient in the art of selection may, by show- 
ing nothing but the truth, produce all the effect of the 
grossest falsehood. It perpetually happens that one 
writer tells less truth than another, merely because he 
tells more truths. In the imitative arts we constantly 
see this. There are lines in the human face, and objects 
in landscape, which stand in such relations to each other, 
that they ought either to be all introduced into a paint- 
ing together, or all omitted together. A sketch into 
which none of them enters may be excellent ; but if 
some are given and others left out, though there are 



486 SELECTIONS. 

more points of likeness, there is less likeness. An out- 
line scrawled with a pen, which seizes the marked fea- 
tures of a countenance, will give a much stronger idea of 
it than a bad painting in oils. Yet the worst painting 
in oils that ever hung in Somerset House resembles the 
original in many more particulars. A bust of white 
marble may give an excellent idea of a blooming face. 
Color the lips and cheeks of the bust, leaving the hair 
and eyes unaltered, and the similarity, instead of being 
more striking, will be less so. 

History has its foreground and its background ; and 
it is principally in the management of its perspective 
that one artist differs from another. Some events must 
be represented on a large scale, others diminished : the 
great majority will be lost in the dimness of the horizon ; 
and a general idea of their joint effect will be given by 
a few slight touches. 



"THEY SAY." 

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 

"They say," is the monarch of this country, in a 
social sense. No one asks ii who says it," so long as it 
is believed that " they say it." Designing men endeavor 
to persuade the public, that already "they say," what 
these designing men wish to be said, and the public 
is only too much disposed blindly to join in the cry 
of " they say." 

This is another consequence of the habit of deferring 
to the control of the public, over matters in which the 
public has no right to interfere. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 487 

Every well-meaning man, before he yields his facul- 
ties and intelligence to this sort of dictation, should 
first ask himself "who" is "they," and on what 
authority " they say " utters its mandates. 



FROM THE HISTORY OF HYPATIA.* 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

Of all the ladies of antiquity I have read of, none 
was ever more justly celebrated than the beautiful 
Hypatia, the daughter of Leon the philosopher. This 
most accomplished of women was born in Alexandria, in 
the reign of Theodosius the younger. Nature was never 
more lavish of its gifts than it had been to her, endued as 
she was w T ith the most exalted understanding, and the 
happiest turn to science. Education completed what 
nature had begun, and made her the prodigy not only 
of her own age, but the glory of her sex. 

From her father she learned geometry and astronomy ; 
she collected from the conversation and schools of the 
other philosophers, for which Alexandria was at that 
time famous, the principles of the rest of the sciences. 
What cannot be conquered by natural penetration, and 
a passion for study ? The boundless knowledge which, 



*A Neoplatonic philosopher of Alexandria, at the end of the 4th and the beginning 
of the 5th century, celebrated for her beauty and her unhappy fate.— Century Dictionary. 

The celebrity of Theon is obscured by that of his daughter Hypatia, whose sex. 
youth, beauty, and cruel fate have made her the most interesting martyr of philosophy. 
. . . Headed by an ecclesiastic named Peter, a band of fanatics attacked Hypatia, in 
the spring of A. D. 415, as she was passing through the streets in her chariot, dragged her 
to one of the churches, where they pulled her clothes from her back, and then cast her 
out into the street, pelted her to death with fragments of earthenware, tore her body to 
pieces, and committed her mutilated remains to the flames. — A". O. Miiller. 



488 SELECTIONS. 

at that period of time, was required to form the character 
of a philosopher, no way discouraged her ; she delivered 
herself up to the study of Aristotle and Plato, and soon 
not one in all Alexandria understood so perfectly as she 
all the difficulties of these two philosophers. 

But not their systems alone, but those of every other 
sect were quite familiar to her ; and to this knowledge 
she added that of polite learning, and the art of oratory. 
All the learning which it was possible for the human 
mind to contain, being joined to a most enchanting 
eloquence, rendered this lady the wonder not only of 
the populace, who easily admire, but of philosophers 
themselves, who are seldom fond of admiration. 

The city of Alexandria was every day crowded with 
strangers, who came from all parts of Greece and Asia 
to see and hear her. As for the charms of her person, 
they might not probably have been mentioned, did she 
not join to a beauty the most striking, a virtue that might 
repress the most assuming ; and though in the whole 
capital, famed for charms, there was not one who could 
equal her in beauty ; though in a city, the resort of all 
the learning then existing in the world, there was not 
one who could equal her in knowledge ; still, with such 
accomplishments, Hypatia was the most modest of her 
sex. Her reputation for virtue was not less than her 
virtues ; and though in a city divided between two fac- 
tions, though visited by the wits and philosophers of the 
age, calumny never dared to suspect her morals, or 
attempt her character. Both the Christians and the 
heathens who have transmitted her history and her mis- 
fortunes, have but one voice, when they speak of her 
beauty, her knowledge, and her virtue. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 489 

This great reputation, of which she so justly was 
possessed, was at last, however, the occasion of her 
ruin. 



CYRIL, THE PERSECUTOR OF HYPATIA. 

ALONZO T. JONES. 
In '* The Two Republics." 

In a. D. 412, Cyril, the nephew of Theophilus, 
became bishop of Alexandria. He was one of the very 
worst men of his time. He began his episcopacy by 
shutting up the churches of the Novatians, "the most 
innocent and harmless of the sectaries," and taking pos- 
session of all their ecclesiastical ornaments and conse- 
crated vessels, and stripping their bishop, Theopemptus, 
of all his possessions. Nor was Cyril content with the 
exercise of such strictly episcopal functions as these : 
he aspired to absolute authority, civil as well as eccle- 
siastical. 

He drove out the Jews, forty thousand in number, 
destroyed their synagogues, and allowed his followers to 
strip them of all their possessions. Orestes, the prefect 
of Egypt, displeased at the loss of such a large number 
of wealthy and industrious people, entered a protest, and 
sent up a report to the emperor. Cyril likewise wrote 
to the emperor. No answer came from the court, and 
the people urged Cyril to come to a reconciliation with 
the prefect, but his advances were made in such a way 
that the prefect would not receive them. The monks 
poured in from the desert to the number of about five 
hundred, to champion the cause of Cyril. 



490 SELECTIONS. 

Orestes was passing through the streets in his char- 
iot. The monks flocked around him, insulted him, and 
denounced him as a heathen and [an] idolater. Orestes, 
thinking that perhaps they thought this was so, and 
knowing his life to be in danger, called out that he was 
a Christian, and had been baptized by Atticus, bishop of 
Constantinople. His defense was in vain. In answer, 
one of the monks threw a big stone which struck hirn on 
the head, and wounded him so that his face was covered 
with blood. At this all his guards fled for their lives ; 
but the populace came to the rescue, and drove off the 
monks, and captured the one who threw the stone. His 
name was Ammonius, and the prefect punished him so 
severely that shortly afterward he died. ' ' Cyril com- 
manded his body to be taken up ; the honors of a Chris- 
tian martyr were prostituted on this insolent ruffian, his 
panegyric was pronounced in the church, and he was 
named Thaumasius — the wonderful." — Milman. 

But the party of Cyril proceeded to yet greater vio- 
lence than this. At that time there was in Alexandria 
a teacher of philosophy, a woman, Hypatia by name. 
She gave public lectures which were so largely attended 
by the chief people of the city, that Cyril grew jealous 
that more people went to hear her lecture than came to 
hear him preach. She was a friend of Orestes, and it 
was also charged that she, more than any other, was the 
cause why Orestes would not be reconciled to Cyril. 
One day as Hypatia was passing through the street in a 
chariot, she was attacked by a crowd of Cyril's partizans, 
whose ring-leader was Peter the Reader. She was torn 
from her chariot, stripped naked in the street, dragged 
into a church, and there beaten to death with a club, by 



MISCELLANEOUS. 491 

Peter the Reader. Then they tore her limb from limb, 
and with shells scraped the flesh from her bones, and 
threw the remnants into the fire. . . . This was 
Cyril, — now Saint Cyril, — bishop of Alexandria. 



FINE WRITING. 

ARLO BATES. 
From "Talks on Writing English." 

An effeminate form of striving for effect is what is 
known as " fine writing." " Fine writing " is a fault so 
gross that it is not necessary to waste many words on it. 
It need only be said that there is no more certain indi- 
cation of a hopelessly diseased literary taste, or of a 
hopelessly depraved habit of composition, than this 
absurdly antiquated verbal vice. Of course no writer 
who produces literature is guilty of it, but I somewhere 
have picked up an example which so happily illustrates 
all that could be said on the subject, that I cannot for- 
bear to quote it. It is from a novel called " Barabbas, " 
by Miss Marie Correlli, and is part of the description of 
the appearance of Christ before Pontius Pilate. Water 
having been brought, Pilate, according to Miss Correlli, 
thus proceeded : — 

" Slowly lowering his hands, he dipped them in the 
shining bowl, rinsing them over and over again in the 
clear, cold element, which sparkled in its polished 
receptacle like an opal against the fire." 

The Bible finds it possible to say all of this that is 
necessary in the words : — 

"Pilate took water, and washed his hands." 



492 SELECTIONS. 

Miss Correlli's ingenuity in expanding and distorting 
has won its reward, — her novel has been warmly 
commended by Queen Victoria. 



A GOLDEN PERIOD IN ROMAN HISTORY. 

EDWARD GIBBON. 

In the second century of the Christian Era, the 
empire of Rome comprehended the fairest part of the 
earth, and the most civilized portion of mankind. The 
frontiers of that extensive monarchy were guarded by 
ancient renown and disciplined valor. The gentle but 
powerful influence of laws and manners had gradually 
cemented the union of the provinces. Their peaceful 
inhabitants enjoyed and abused the advantages of wealth 
and luxury. The image of a free constitution was 
preserved with decent reverence : the Roman senate 
appeared to possess the sovereign authority, and devolved 
on the emperors all the executive powers of government. 
D.uring a happy period of more than fourscore years, the 
public administration was conducted by the virtue and 
abilities of Nerva, Trajan, Hadrian, and the two 
Antonines. 

If a man were called to fix the period in the history 
of the world, during which the condition of the human 
race was most happy and prosperous, he would, without 
hesitation, name that which elapsed from the death of 
Domitian to the accession of Commodus. The vast 



MISCELLANEOUS. 493 

extent of the Roman empire was governed by absolute 
power, under the guidance of virtue and wisdom. The 
armies were restrained by the firm but gentle hand of 
four successive emperors, whose characters and authority 
commanded involuntary respect. The forms of the civil 
administration were carefully preserved by Nerva, Tra- 
jan, Hadrian, and the Antonines, who delighted in the 
image of liberty, and were pleased with considering 
themselves as the accountable ministers of the laws. 
Such princes deserved the honor of restoring the repub- 
lic, had the Romans of their days been capable of 
enjoying a rational freedom. 

The labors of these monarchs were overpaid by the 
immense reward that inseparably waited on their suc- 
cess ; by the honest pride of virtue, and by the exquisite 
delight of beholding the general happiness of which they 
were the authors. A just but melancholy reflection 
embittered, however, the noblest of human enjoyments. 
They must often have recollected the instability of a 
happiness which depended on the character of a single 
man. The fatal moment was perhaps approaching, 
when some licentious youth, or some jealous tyrant, 
would abuse, to the destruction, that absolute power, 
which they had exerted for the benefit of their people. 
The ideal restraints of the senate and the laws might 
serve to display the virtues, but could never correct the 
vices, of the emperor. The military force was a blind 
and irresistible instrument of oppression ; and the cor- 
ruption of Roman manners would always supply flat- 
terers eager to applaud, and ministers prepared to serve, 
the fear or the avarice, the lust or the cruelty, of their 
masters. 



494 SELECTIONS. 

These gloomy apprehensions had been already justi- 
fied by the experience of the Romans. The annals 
of the emperors exhibit a strong and various picture of 
human nature, which we should vainly seek among the 
mixed and doubtful characters of modern history. In 
the conduct of those monarchs we may trace the utmost 
lines of vice and virtue ; the most exalted perfection, 
and the meanest degeneracy of our own species. The 
golden age of Trajan and the Antonines had been 
preceded by an age of iron. It is almost superfluous to 
enumerate the unworthy successors of Augustus. Their 
unparalleled vices, and the splendid theater on which 
they were acted, have saved them from oblivion. The 
dark, unrelenting Tiberius, the furious Caligula, the 
feeble Claudius, the profligate and cruel Nero, the beastly 
Vitellius, and the timid, inhuman Domitian, are con- 
demned to everlasting infamy. During fourscore years 
(excepting only the short and doubtful respite of Ves- 
pasian's reign) Rome groaned beneath an unremitting 
tyranny, which exterminated the ancient families of the 
republic, and was fatal to almost every virtue and every 
talent that arose in that unhappy period. 



FALSE GROUNDS FOR "HOLY WARS." 

EDWARD GIBBON. 

So familiar, and as it were so natural to man, is the 
practise of violence, that our indulgence allows the 
slightest provocation, the most disputable right, as a 
sufficient ground of national hostility. But the name 
and nature of a holy war demands a more rigorous 



MISCELLANEOUS. 495 

scrutiny ; nor can we hastily believe, that the servants 
of the Prince of Peace would unsheathe the sword of 
destruction, unless the motive were pure, the quarrel 
legitimate, and the necessity inevitable. The policy of 
an action may be determined from the tardy lessons of 
experience ; but, before we act, our conscience should 
be satisfied of the justice and propriety of our enterprise. 
In the age of the Crusades, the Christians, both of the 
East and West, were persuaded of their lawfulness and 
merit ; their arguments are clouded by the perpetual 
abuse of Scripture and rhetoric ; but they seem to insist 
on the right of natural and religious defense, their 
peculiar title to the Holy Land, and the impiety of their 
Pagan and Mahometan foes. I. The right of a just 
defense may fairly include our civil and spiritual allies : 
it depends on the existence of danger ; and that danger 
must be estimated by the twofold consideration of the 
malice, and the power, of our enemies. A pernicious 
tenet has been imputed to the Mahometans, — the duty 
of extirpating all other religions by the sword. This 
charge of ignorance and bigotry is refuted by the Koran, 
by the history of the Mussulman conquerors, and by 
their public and legal toleration of the Christian worship. 
But it cannot be denied, that the Oriental churches are 
depressed under their iron yoke ; that, in peace and 
war, they assert a divine and indefeasible claim of 
universal empire ; and that, in their orthodox creed, the 
unbelieving nations are continually threatened with the 
loss of religion or liberty. In the eleventh century, 
the victorious arms of the Turks presented a real and 
urgent apprehension of these losses. They had subdued, 
in less than thirty years, the kingdoms of Asia, as far 



496 SELECTIONS. 

as Jerusalem and the Hellespont ; and the Greek empire 
tottered on the verge of destruction. Besides an honest 
sympathy for their brethren, the Latins had a right and 
interest in the support of Constantinople, the most 
important barrier of the West ; and the privilege of 
defense must reach to prevent, as well as to repel, an 
impending assault. But this salutary purpose might 
have been accomplished by a moderate succor ; and our 
calmer reason must disclaim the innumerable hosts, 
and remote operations, which overwhelmed Asia and 
depopulated Europe. II. Palestine could add nothing 
to the strength or safety of the Latins ; and fanaticism 
alone could pretend to justify the conquest of that 
distant and narrow province. The Christians affirmed 
that their inalienable title to the promised land had been 
sealed by the blood of their divine Savior ; it was their 
right and duty to rescue their inheritance from the unjust 
possessors, who profaned his sepulcher, and oppressed 
the pilgrimage of his disciples. Vainly would it be 
alleged that the pre-eminence of Jerusalem and the 
sanctity of Palestine, have been abolished with the 
Mosaic law ; that the God of the Christians is not a 
local deity, and that the recovery of Bethlehem or 
Calvary, his cradle or his tomb, will not atone for the 
violation of the moral precepts of the gospel. Such 
arguments glance aside from the leaden shield of super- 
stition ; and the religious mind will not easily relinquish 
its hold on the sacred ground of mystery and miracle. 
III. But the holy wars which have been waged in 
every climate of the globe, from Egypt to Livonia, and 
from Peru to Hindostan, require the support of some 
more general and flexible tenet. It has been often 



MISCELLANEOUS. 497 

supposed, and sometimes affirmed, that a difference of 
religion is a worthy cause of hostility ; that obstinate 
unbelievers may be slain or subdued by the champions 
of the cross ; and that grace is the sole fountain of 
dominion as well as of mercy. 



REST 

JOHN SULLIVAN DWIGHT, 

Sweet is the pleasure 
Itself cannot spoil ! 

Is not true leisure 
One with true toil ? 

Thou that wouldst taste it, 

Still do thy best ; 
Use it, not waste it — 

Else : t is no rest. 

Wouldst behold beauty 
Near thee ? All round ? 

Only hath duty 

Such a sight found. 

Rest is not quitting 

The busy career ; 
Rest is the fitting 

Of self to its sphere, 

'Tis the brook's motion, 
Clear without strife, 

Fleeing to ocean 
After its life. 

Deeper devotion 

Nowhere hath knelt ; 
Fuller emotion 

Heart never felt, 



32 



498 SELECTIONS. 

'T is loving and serving 
The highest and best ; 

'T is onward ! unswerving ! 
And that is true rest. 



COUNSEL. 

MARY EVELYN MOORE DAVIS. 

If thou shouldst bid thy friend farewell, — 
But for one night though that farewell should be, — ■ 
Press thou his hand in thine : how canst thou tell 
How far from thee 

Fate or Caprice may lead his feet 
Ere that to-morrow come ? Men have been known 
Lightly to turn the corner of a street, 
And days have grown 

To months, and months to lagging years, 
Before they looked in loving eyes again. 
Parting, at best, is underlaid with tears, — 
With tears and pain. 

Therefore, lest sudden death should come between, 
Or time, or distance, clasp with pressure true 
The palm of him who goeth forth. Unseen, 
Fate goeth too ! 

Yea, find thou alway time to say 
Some earnest word betwixt the idle talk, 
Lest with thee henceforth, night and day, 
Regret should walk. 



CHAPTER TEN. 



Short Extracts. 

Do we ever call any man good unless we believe that 
he is interested in the happiness of others ; unless he 
uses his power and his means for the promotion of their 
welfare ? 

To be good, one must be "good for something;" 
one must fill a place, and make an unselfish use of 
power. Goodness always means good-will ; and good- 
will implies relations with other beings. — Rev. Charles 
Gordon Ames. 

With every person, even if humble or debased, there 
may be some good worth lifting up and saving ; in each 
human being, though seemingly immaculate, there are 
some faults which need pointing out and correcting ; 
and all circumstances of life, however trivial they may 
appear, may possess those alternations of the comic and 
pathetic, the good and bad, the joyful and sorrowful, 
upon which walk the days and nights, the summers and 
winters, the lives and deaths, of this strange world. — 
From preface to "Farm Ballads" Will Carletoji. 

[499] 



500 SELECTIONS. 

There are no compensations in life more delightful 
and soul-satisfying than those that come from service and 
sacrifice for the welfare of our fellow men. . . . 

It has never troubled me to be in the minority. If 
you want real genuine pleasure in a battle, go in with a 
minority on some great principle affecting the welfare of 
society. You feel the bracing of muscle and nerve, the 
rising of will-power, the determination not to go down. 
It is glorious ! — Charles C. Coffin. 

John G. Whittier wrote to Mr. Coffin in 1889 : " I 
hear of thee very often, Friend Coffin, and always on 
the right side." 

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll ! 
Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 

Till thou at length art free, 

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea ! 
— Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

We must have a weak spot or two in a character 
before we can love it much. People that do not laugh 
or cry, or take more of anything than is good for them, 
or use anything but dictionary words, are admirable sub- 
jects for biographies. But we don't care most for those 
flat pattern flowers that press best in the herbarium. — 
6. IV. Holmes. 

Holmes once said to Mrs. Phelps Ward : " Outside 
I laugh. Inside I never laugh. It is impossible. The 
world is too sad." 



SHORT EXTRACTS. 501 

How shrink the snows upon this upland field, 

Under the dove-gray dome of brooding noon ! 

They shrink with soft, reluctant shocks, and soon 
In sad, brown ranks the furrows lie revealed. 
From radiant cisterns of. the frost unsealed, 

Now wakes through all the air a watery rune, — 

The babble of a million brooks atune, 
In fairy conduits of blue ice concealed. 
Noisy with crows, the wind-break on the hill 

Counts o*er its buds for summer. In the air 
Some shy foreteller prophesies with skill, — 

Some voyaging ghost of bird, some effluence rare ; 
And the stall-wearied cattle dream their fill 

Of deep June pastures where the pools are fair. 

— Charles G. D. Roberts, in Current Literatiire. 

Literature is the fragment of fragments. The small- 
est part of what has been done and spoken has been 
recorded ; and the smallest part of what has been 
recorded has survived. — Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. 

Behold there in the woods the fine madman ... he 
accosts the grass and the trees ; he feels the blood of 
the violet, the clover, and the lily, in his veins ; and he 
talks with the brook that wets his foot. — Emerson. 

And O, my heart has understood 

The spider's fragile line of lace, 

The common weed, the woody space ! 

— Norman Gale. 

James Whitcomb Riley asks, — 

What is the lily and all of the rest 
Of the flowers to a man with a heart in his breast 
That was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew 
Of the sweet clover blossoms his babyhood knew ? 



502 SELECTIONS. 

"I remember," Hannah Adams once said, "that 
my first idea of the happiness of heaven, was of a 
place where we should find our thirst for knowledge 
fully gratified." 

Life takes its complexion from inferior things. It is 
little attentions and assiduities that sweeten the bitter 
draught and smooth the rugged road. — From a letter to 
John Adams, by his wife, Abagail Adams. 

A man's conversation may be his own ; his conduct 
may vibrate with the extinct movements of his ancestors. 
— James Lane Allen. 

The happiness of life depends very much on the 
little things ; and one can be brave and great and good 
while making small sacrifices, and doing small duties 
faithfully and cheerfully. — Louisa M. Alcott. 

Emerson said after a visit to the Alcotts : — 
"Their manners and behavior in the house, and in 
the field, are those of superior men, — of men of rest. 
What had they to conceal ? — What had they to 
exhibit ? " 



NATURE. 



As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, 
Leads by the hand her little child to bed, 
Half willing, half reluctant to be led, 
And leave his broken playthings on the floor, 
Still gazing at them through the open door, 
Nor wholly reassured and comforted 
By promises of others in their stead, 



SHORT EXTRACTS. 503 

Which, though more splendid, may not please him more; 
So Nature deals with us, and takes away 

Our playthings one by one, and by the hand 
Leads us to rest so gently that we go, 
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, 
Being too full of sleep to understand 

How far the unknown transcends the what we know. 
— Heriry W. Longfellow. 

Better to weave in the web of life 

A bright and golden filling, 
And to do God*s will with a ready heart 

And hands that are swift and willing, 
Than to snap the delicate, tender threads 

Of our curious lives asunder, 
And then blame heaven for the tangled ends, 

And sit, and grieve, and wonder. 

That education only is valuable which creates 
thought. — William M. Thayer. 

We are all apt to lose sight of the fact that wisdom 
is not what a man knows, but what he is. The impor- 
tant thing is not what we drill into our children, but 
what we drill them into. — Arlo Bates. 

Let fortune do her worst, whatever she makes us 
lose, so long as she never makes us lose our honesty 
and our independence. — Alexander Pope. 

In life's small things be resolute and great, 
To keep thy muscle trained. Knowest thou when Fate 
Thy measure takes, or when she "11 say to thee, 
" I find thee worthy ; do this deed for me " ? 

— James Russell Lowell. 



504 SELECTIONS. 

It is hard to believe long together that anything is 
worth while unless there is some eye to kindle in 
common with our own, some brief word uttered now 
and then to imply that what is infinitely precious to us 
is precious alike to another soul. — Geoi'ge Eliot. 

The world's memory is equally bad for failure or 
success ; if it will not keep your triumphs in mind as 
you think it ought, neither will it dwell long upon your 
defeats. — William Dean Howells. 

I pray you, O excellent wife, do not cumber yourself 
and me to get a rich dinner for this man or this woman 
who has alighted at our gate, nor a bed-chamber made 
ready at too great a cost. These things, if they are 
curious in, they can get for a dollar at any village. But 
let this visitor, if he will, in our accent and our behavior 
read our hearts and earnestness, our thoughts and will, 
which he cannot buy at any price in any village or city, 
and which he may well travel fifty miles and dine 
sparely and sleep hard in order to behold. — Ralph 
Waldo Emerson. 

It is true, O Christ in heaven, that the highest suffer most ; 
That the strongest wander farthest, and most hopelessly are lost ; 
That the mark of rank in nature is capacity for pain, 
And the anguish of the singer makes the sweetness of the strain. 

The world's most royal heritage is his who most 
enjoys, most loves, and most forgives. — Bulwer. 

There are few prophets in the world — few heroes. 
I cannot afford to give all my love and reverence to such 



SHORT EXTRACTS. 505 

rarities. I want a great deal of these feelings for my 
every-day fellow men, especially for the few in the 
foreground of the great multitude, whose faces I know, 
whose hands I touch. It is more needful that my heart 
should swell with loving admiration at some trait of 
gentle goodness in the faulty people who sit at the same 
hearth with me, than at deeds of heroes whom I shall 
never know except by hearsay. — George Eliot. 

By earnest endeavor strive to gladden the human 
circle in which you live — to open your heart to the gos- 
pel of life and nature, seizing each moment and the good 
which it brings, be it friendly glance, spring breeze, or 
flower, extracting from every moment a drop of the 
honey of eternal life. — James Russell Lowell. 

They that stand high have many blasts to shake them, 
And, if they fall, shall dash themselves to pieces. 

— William Shakespeare. 

Wolsey. — Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear 
In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me 
Out of thy honest truth to play the woman. 
Let 's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; 
And — when I am forgotten, as I shall be ; 
And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention 
Of me more must be heard of — say, I taught thee, 
Say, Wolsey — that once trod the ways of glory, 
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor — 
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; 
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. 
Mark but my fall, and' that that ruined me. 
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition ; 
By that sin fell the angels ; how can man then, 



506 SELECTIONS. 

The image of his Maker, hope to win by it ? 

Love thyself last ; cherish those hearts that hate thee ; 

Corruption wins not more than honesty. 

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not ; 

Let all the ends thou aimest at be thy country's, 

Thy God's, and truth's ; then, if thou fallest, O Cromwell. 

Thou fallest a blessed martyr. Serve the king, 

And, — prithee lead me in : 

There take an inventory of all I have, 

To the last penny : 't is the king's : my robe, 

And my integrity to heaven, is all 

I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell, 

Had I but served my God with half the zeal 

I served my king, He would not in mine age 

Have left me naked to mine enemies. 

— Shakespeare. 



QUESTIONS AND REQUIREMENTS. 



PART SECOND. 

SELECTIONS. 



. CHAPTER ONE. 
In Honor of the Creator. 

IMMENSITY OF GOD'S WORKS. 
JOSEPH ADDISON. 

i. Describe the sunset. walk and the author's enjoyment of it. 

2. As the rich colors faded from the sky, what other beauties 

took their place ? 

3. How was the grandeur and loveliness of the scene com- 

pleted ? 

4. What thought arose in the author's mind as he was survey- 

ing the moon ? 

5. How does the psalmist David express this reflection ? Psalm 

139- 

6. Give Addison's conception of the immensity of the universe. 

7. What thought did this view awaken in him ? 

8. Why is it that our planetary system would scarcely be 

missed if it were extinguished ? 

9. How is this thought illustrated ? — By a grain of sand on the 

seashore. 

10. How are men continually discovering heavenly bodies that 

were before unknown ? 

11. Why is it difficult for our imagination to set any bounds to 

the infinity of God's created works ? 

[507] 



508 SELECTIONS. 

Analysis. — I. Description of heavenly scenery at 
night. 2. Apparent insignificance of man when com- 
pared with the infinity of God's works. 3. Compara- 
tive insignificance of our planetary system. 

ODE. 
JOSEPH ADDISON. 

i. Compare this ode with the prose article that has just pre- 
ceded it. 

2. How does its analysis differ from that of the other, and in 

what respects does it agree ? 

3. Write a paraphrase of the ode. 

OMNIPRESENCE AND OMNISCIENCE OF GOD. 
JOSEPH ADDISON. 

i. What view does the author take of the omnipresence of 
God? 

2. To what extent does the Creator permeate all his works ? 

3. What does he essentially inhabit ? 

4. How immediately present is God in the substance of every 

being which he has made ? 

5. What would be an imperfection in him ? 

6. In what language did the old philosopher try to express this 

thought ? 

7. From what does his omniscience naturally flow ? 

8. Why is it that he cannot but be conscious of every motion or 

activity in the material world, and of every thought in the 
intellectual world ? 

9. How have some moralists considered the creation ? 

10. How have others regarded it ? 

11. What name did Sir Isaac Newton give to the infinite space 

which God fills ? 

12. What may be said of the extent and efficiency of the sensoria 

that brutes and men possess ? 

13. Since God resides in everything, for what does infinite space 

give him room ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 509 

14. Of what does it thus become an organ ? 

15. How impossible is it to get beyond the presence of God ? 

16. How does the psalmist give expression to this mysterious 

truth ? 

17. On the other hand, how does Job show his perplexity at not 

being able to locate Him whose presence is everywhere ? 

18. Of what does reason as well as revelation assure us ? 

19. In view of these things, need there be any fear that God will 

overlook any of his creatures ? 

20. Whom is he likely to remember with particular care and 

mercy ? 

NATURE WORSHIPS GOD. 
WHITTIER. 

i. What is said of the harp that was strung at Nature's advent ? 

2. What song has never died away ? 

3. By what are prayer and praise continually offered ? 

4. How does ocean show a reverent attitude ? 

5. What is said of the devotion of its waves ? 

6. How do the hills take up the song sung by the waves ? 

7. Whence does earth send up incense ? 

8. Whence does she pour her sacred wine ? 

9. How do the mists rise above the morning rills ? 

10. What constitutes the altar-curtains of the hills ? 

11. Describe the worship of the winds. 

12. Describe the attitudes and actions of the forest, as viewed by 

the poet. 

13. What is said of the temple in which all this worship is 

carried on ? 

14. How does the poet set forth the constancy of Nature's 

worship ? 

15. Write a paraphrase of the poem. 

THE SOURCE OF ALL GOOD. 
JOHN MILTON SCOTT. 

i. By what alone do the leaves and fruit of summer seem to be 
produced ? 



510 SELECTIONS. 

2. What is really the active agent in forming the fruits and 

grains, and in setting the soil of the earth in the loveliness 
of the rose ? 

3. What invented all and is back of all ? 

4. What blessings result from this all-potent and ever-present 

activity ? 

5. When man invents, what does he think of the source of his 

achievements ? 

6. By what are all these inventions and achievements suggested 

and carried into effect ? 

7. How is it that men realize God, and know it not ? 

8. In thus stirring men to create, how does God give them 

fellowship with him ? 

THE LOVE OF G-OD. 
From Esaias Tegner, translated by H. W. Longfellow. 

i. What is the root of creation ? 

2. For what purpose did God make the worlds ? 

3. When man was created from the dust of the earth, what 

warmed his heart ? 

4. What admonition does the poet urge with reference to this 

flame ? 

5. How are love and hatred contrasted ? 

6. How has God manifested his exceedingly great love for 

mankind ? 

7. When did this love solemnize its triumph ? 

8. By what visible signs was this triumph celebrated ? 
g. With what is atonement synonymous ? 

10. What should prompt our obedience ? 

11. Contrast the obedience of fear with that of love. 

12. How will the real love of God show itself ? 

13. By what figure is the unity of love illustrated ? 

14. What considerations does the poet present, to show why we 

should love all men ? 

15. How is forgiveness urged ? 

16. What attitude does the poet recommend toward the failings 

of others ? 



gUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 511 

17. By what allusion is this admonition enforced ? 

18. How is the love of mortals contrasted with that of Jesus ? 

19. How does the poet set forth the offices of hope ? 

20. Show how the hope of the Christian transcends all other hope. 

21. Into what is it transfigured ? 

22. Describe the offices of faith. 



CHAPTER TWO. 
Education, Morals, and Religion. 

EXTRACTS FROM REMARKS ON EDUCATION. 
WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING. 

i. What attitudes are communities too apt to take toward 
education ? 

2. On this account what does the writer feel bound to do ? 

3. Why do great truths and important principles need to be con- 

stantly reiterated ? 

4. What adverse claim do some thinkers present with reference 

to what they regard as excessive educating on the part of 
parents and teachers ? 

5. Is such a claim wholly unfounded ? 

6. Is it true that parents can operate at pleasure upon the minds 

of their children ? 

7. How is their influence limited ? 

8. With whom must parents divide the work of educating their 

offspring ? 

9. W r hat would be the result if children were confined to domes- 

tic influences ? 

10. How wide and various are the influences that take part in the 

education of a child ? 

11. What volumes are opened everywhere, and kept perpetually 

before his eyes ? 

12. From what does he take lessons ? 

13. Amidst what is he plunged ? 



512 SELECTIONS. 

14. How is he to make use of both these classes of influences ? 

15. What, after all, depends very largely upon the influence of 

parents and teachers ? 

16. What must they help him to do ? 

17. What important office should they perform for him ? 

18. What is the usual result of leaving children to the education 

of circumstances, without teaching, guidance, or restraint ? 

19. How are we to look upon the instances in which children with- 

out the aid of parents or schools have struggled into emi- 
nence ? 

20. Show why it is that parents need the aid of teachers and 

institutions of learning. 

21. What are the writer's views with reference to employing 

cheap teachers, and of other economical measures in edu- 
cation ? 

22. What does he think of the charity that is active for distant 

objects, but careless of the interests of individuals within 
its reach ? 

23. What narrow views are held by many with reference to edu- 

cation ? 

24. What broader view of its offices is taken by the writer ? 

25. What relation exists between reading and education ? 

26. For what was the intellect created ? 

27. What, therefore, should education labor to inspire and teach ? 

28. What is an essential part of a good education ? 

29. As far as possible, what should we cause the young to be ? 

30. How are they best helped ? 

31. What should they be taught to do ? 

32. What should go hand in hand with this intellectual education 

which has just been outlined ? 

33. As fast as a child gains knowledge, what should he be taught 

with reference to it ? 

34. How should he study the world ? 

35. What kind of spirit should be breathed into him ? 

36. Write a review of this article. 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 513 



PRACTISE AND HABIT. 
JOHN LOCKE. 

i. How does Mr. Locke show that unusual mental activities are 
oftener the product of repeated exercise than of natural 
endowment ? 

2. What leads people to suppose that these gifts and proficiencies 

must be the effect of pure nature ? 

3. How are people often led into practises that may result in 

remarkable acquirements ? 

4. What is it alone that can bring either the powers of the mind 

or body to perfection ? 

5. How does the author illustrate his point by contrasting city 

and country life ? 

6. Can the best precepts of logic or oratory make a man reason 

well, or speak handsomely ? 

7. Can the committing of rules make one proficient in anything ? 

8. What is the only way in which such a result can be 

accomplished ? 

9. Repeat the author's illustration. 
10. Give a synopsis of the article. 

BROTHERS AND A SERMON. 
JEAN INGELOW. 

i. What did the sultry air do ? 

2. What did it take out to sea besides the sweet odor of trodden 

grass ? 

3. Over what did the tones of the bell come ? 

4. What did the fisherman say of them ? 

5. Relate the conversation concerning the pastor. 

6. How does the fisherman introduce his account of the ship- 

wreck ? 

7. Describe the attempt to rescue the crew. 

8. Tell about the efforts made to save the two children. 

9. How did the fisherman conclude liis talk ? 

10. Describe the departure of the two young men. 

33 



514 SELECTIONS. 

ii. Write a paraphrase of that part of the poem already con- 
sidered. 

12. Tell how the young men came unexpectedly on the church. 

13. Since they had unwittingly disturbed the church by their 

loud talking, what was the most decent thing they 
could do ? 

14. Describe the congregation. 

15. How did the blind preacher reprove them for giving their 

attention to the young men instead of the sermon ? 

16. How did he charge them to open the door of the heart to 

Him who was patiently waiting and asking for admit- 
tance ? 

17. How were those to open the door who had sinned ? 

18. How were they to open it who were sorry ? 

19. How did he show that they were not to hesitate because of 

their own unworthiness ? 

20. What was the great burden that lay so heavy upon his 

soul ? 

21. How did he purpose to free himself of obligation ? Why 

would he not delay ? 

22. How does he graphically describe what might occur and 

what might be said to him in the Judgment Day if he 
should neglect his duty ? 

23. What does the parson mean by saying he was afraid of 

man's humility ? — He feared that they might feel them- 
selves unworthy of God's notice. 

24. How does the poet introduce the scene of the woman who is 

perishing from hunger and cold ? 

25. What is the condition of the room ? 

26. What is heard from the children in their sleep ? 

27. What sound comes to her from the ale-house ? 

28. What is her husband doing there ? 

29. How does the sight of her infant affect her as it looks into 

her face with piteous eyes ? 

30. Why does she not curse the song as it comes to her from the 

ale-house ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 515 

31. When the morrow comes, how will she be likely to excuse her 

husband for beating her ? 

32. Why does she now sit so dumb and still ? 

33. What is the preacher led to exclaim ? 

34. What troubles are hardest to bear ? 

35. What blocks up the poor woman's doorway ? 

36. What does she exclaim ? 

37. How does she address the wind ? 

38. How does she apostrophize the sea and the waterfall ? 

39. How does she describe the hopelessness of her condition ? 

40. What words of comfort has the preacher for such a one ? 

41. Why will she not have to wait ? 

42. Where is much thought spent upon the lot of such an unfor- 

tunate being ? 

43. What does the One covet who patiently watches and waits 

night and day ? 

44. How will he comfort the sufferer who will open the heart 

to him ? 

45. By what words will he give assurance of his sympathy for all 

who are afflicted ? 

46. What does he say about the little ones ? 

47. How would he comfort, therefore, the darkness of her 

house ? 

48. What would he have her think of when her sorrows press 

her down ? 

49. What promises does he make her ? 

50. Paraphrase different portions of this selection. 

Remarks. — This extract, though somewhat long, is 
but a portion taken from the middle of the poem. The 
first part of the poem relates to the talk which the two 
young men had with the old fisherman, and to the spot 
where the "Grace of Sunderland " was wrecked. The 
concluding portion contains two other sketches as affect- 
ing as the one concerning the woman and her children 



516 SELECTIONS. 

who were perishing from cold and hunger. No one can 
afford to miss the reading of the entire poem. 

Its deep human interest, the quaintness of its style, 
and the extreme simplicity of its language, make it 
worthy of being studied. 

ADVANTAGES OF TRUTH AND SINCERITY. 
TILLOTSON. 

1. What is the best way for a man to make good his pretensions 

to any excellence ? 

2. By what considerations and illustrations does Bishop Tillotson 

establish the truth of this statement ? 

3. How does he show that in the long run, it is as difficult to 

maintain a false claim, as it is to secure the thing itself ? 

4. How does he show that it is wisdom, in all the affairs of this 

world, to maintain absolute sincerity ? 

5. How does he contrast deceit and integrity ? 

6. What is of untold value in life's business affairs ? 

7. Mention some of the conveniences of truth. 

8. What are some of the inconveniences of deception ? 

9. By what figure does he illustrate these things ? 

10. How does the crafty man often deceive himself ? 

11. How does the writer set forth the economy of sincerity ? 

12. What is the sad condition of a man who has forfeited a 

reputation for integrity ? 

13. What does God seem to have hidden from men of false and 

dishonest minds ? 

14. How, and to what extent, are such men blinded ? 

15. Why are they thus allowed to grope in darkness ? 

16. Give a synopsis of the article. 

THE BAD BARGAIN. 
HANNAH MORE. 

i. By what baits does Satan tempt men to sell their souls ? 
2. Write a paraphrase of the poem. 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 517 



PARADISE: THE GOSPEL OF LABOR. 
BISHOP HALL. 

i. How was Adam especially favored at creation ? 

2. Why must the Garden of Eden have been supremely excellent ? 

3. How abundantly was it supplied ? 

4. Did the bounty of God stop at mere necessities ? 

5. What may we learn from this ? 

6. What besides this abundance is required to make man truly 

blessed ? 

7. What purpose did the Garden of Eden serve besides that of 

administering to his wants and his delight ? 

8. What did Paradise furnish besides food for the senses ? 

9. Why did the Creator give man work to do ? 

10. What is the concluding thought ? — ■ The more cheerfully we 
labor, the nearer we come to our Paradise. 

TRUE SENSIBILITY. 
HANNAH MORE. 



i. What lesson is taught by this selection ? 
2. Write a paraphrase of the lines. 



ELEMENTS OF TRUE GREATNESS. 

JOHN MILTON SCOTT. 

i. In what does spiritual brotherhood consist rather than in 
equality of talents ? 

2. Who may be the spiritual brother of Emerson ? 

3. Who may claim kinship to Shakespeare ? 

4. Who, besides those who can write noble songs, may be 

counted as partaking of the spirit of Whittier ? 

5. How can one measure the greatness of his own soul ? 

6. When one's heart is stirred with a great book, what credit 

may he modestly take to himself ? 

7. What may one take as an evidence that there is music in his 

soul ? 



518 SELECTIONS. 

8. If one's soul is stirred to the depths by a noble action, what 

does the fact indicate ?. 

9. Why is it that some people are filled with admiration for a 

beautiful life ? 

10. What may be said of the nature of those who are thrilled and 

moved to noble endeavor by beholding goodness in others ? 

11. Give a synopsis of the selection. 



THE SABBATH. 
CHARLES T. BROOKS. 

i. How does the poet describe the advent of the Sabbath ? 

2. What evidences are seen of the Father's care and mercy ? 

3. What harsh sounds have ceased, and what low voices does 

the poet imagine that he hears ? 

4. What evidence does he see of the fruition of faith ? 

5. What scene will soon be enacted in the fields ? 

6. What figurative application does the poet make ? 

7. Write in prose a synopsis of the poem. 



POWER OF INTERPRETATION. 
JOHN MILTON SCOTT. 

i. What does the light need before it can be recognized as such 
by the brain ? 

2. How must light be interpreted to us ? 

3. What is the only condition under which there can be any 

hearing ? 

4. What is the only condition under which anything without us 

can have a meaning to us ? 

5. What interprets to us the beauty of the rose ? The enchant- 

ing gracefulness of the bird ? The charm of innocent 
childhood ? 

6. What is necessary in order that the men and women of the 

world may interest us, influence us, and make us great ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 519 



FORGIVENESS. 
WHITTIER. 

i. Tell how the writer's pride was swept away, and a spirit of 

forgiveness awakened in him. 
2. Write a paraphrase of these lines. 

GOD SEES NOT AS MAN SEES. 
MRS. E. G. WHITE. 

i. How is David described ? 

2. Describe the anointing of the future king. 

3. Was this a public anointing ? 

4. What was it meant to do for David ? 

5. How did David's subsequent conduct show that he was not 

elated by the honor that had been conferred upon him ? 

6. What was there in his surroundings that naturally would 

cultivate in him an esthetic taste and a reverence for God ? 

7. How was the young poet's heart filled with adoration and 

rejoicing ? 

8. What experiences were molding the character of David ? 

9. How were they to exert an influence through many genera- 

tions after the poet king should be in his grave ? 

10. What have these beautiful psalms done for the people of God? 

11. How was the character of David affected by this course of 

training ? 

THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRTJS. 



1. Describe the death-bed scene as given in the first twelve lines. 

2. What were the last manifestations of affection between the 

father and daughter ? 

3. Describe the. scene as twilight fell. 

4. Describe the scene on the Sea of Galilee. 

5. What was the situation, and what were the surroundings of 

the Savior, as he stood, and taught the people ? 



520 SELECTIONS. 

6. Describe his appearance as given by the poet. 

7. Who appeared suddenly among the entranced listeners ? 

8. As the ruler approached Jesus, what did the disciples and the 

people do ? 

9. What strange scene did they soon behold ? 

10. What beautiful - description is given by the poet of the 

ruler's stately dwelling, and of Jesus and his disciples 
entering in ? 

11. How did the interior of the house appear ? 

12. When they reached the room where the sick girl lay, what 

whisper came from within ? 

13. How was the ruler affected by these words ? 

14. Describe the room where the ruler's daughter lay dead ? 

15. What did Jesus do ? 

16. How does the poet describe the beautiful maiden as she lay 

there before the Savior ? 

17. Tell how she was brought to life. 



EVILS OF AN ENVIOUS SPIRIT. 
MRS. E. G. WHITE. 

i. What caused the demon of jealousy to enter the heart of King 
Saul? 

2. How did Saul allow a normally good trait to run to so great 

excess as to poison his happiness and ruin his life ? 

3. What low standard of right and wrong did he adopt ? 

4. What is the only safe course for any man to pursue ? 

5. What caused Saul to hate David ? 

6. How did Saul make it evident that he had no true knowledge 

of the plans or power of God ? 

7. In ruling the kingdom of Israel, what important lesson had he 

failed to learn ? 

8. What controlled his judgment ? 

9. Into what state of misery did this drive him ? 

10. What was it that wrought this baneful influence upon the 
character and life of Saul ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 521 

ii. How were the evil effects of envy shown in the early history 

of mankind ? 
12. From what does envy spring, what are its sure results, and to 

what is it likely to lead, if entertained in the heart ? 

MAGNANIMITY. 

MRS. E. G. WHITE. 

i. How was Saul surprised on searching for David to take his 
life? 

2. How did David address the king ? 

3. How did he prove that he had no desire to harm his master ? 

4. Why did David hold the person of Saul as in a manner 

sacred ? 

5. How was Saul affected by the words of David ? 

6. What confession did he make ? 

7. Of what was Saul now fully convinced ? 

8.. What covenant was made between Saul and David ? 
9. Why did David still remain in the strongholds of the moun- 
tains ? 

POWER OF TRUE POETRY. 
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

i. Why were rough, rude men so attracted to the poet Burns? 

2. How did they listen to the reading of his poetry ? 

3. What kind of spirit came over them as they listened ? 

4. What does Mr. Lowell say of such a sight ? 

5. How did he think these rude men would be affected by the 

lines to which they so eagerly listened ? 

6. How does God scatter his love ? 

7. What is sown by every wind ? 

8. What will this broadcast sowing always find ? and what fruits 

may be expected ? 

9. Where do all thoughts begin that are to mold the age ? 

10. What is their course of development ? 

11. In what does all thought originate ? 

12. Where does the base of all great achievements lie hidden ? 



522 SELECTIONS. 

13. Whence comes every hope which rises and grows broad in 

every heart ? 

14. What is the state of hope in common souls ? 

15. Who gives it point, and makes it a blessing to mankind ? 

16. When did poesy appear fullest of heaven to the writer of this 

selection ? 

17. What is the highest achievement of the poet ? 

18. What will come true of the poet who accomplishes such work ? 

EFFECTS OF RELIGION IN OLD AGE AND ADVERSITY. 
WILLIAM WILBERFORCE. 

i. When do the pleasures of religion show their superiority over 
dissipation and vanity to the greatest advantage ? 

2. Describe the condition of ah old person who is destitute of 

the consolations of religion, but is still catching at the 
pleasures of his younger years. 

3. How is it with the aged Christian, who relies on the assured 

mercy of his Redeemer ? 

4. How can he lift up his eye at the very entrance of the valley 

of the shadow of death ? 

5. Show the folly of trusting in sublunary possessions. 

6. When does Religion dispense her choicest cordials ? 

7. When is the superiority of religion most apparent ? 

THE STATUTE-BOOK NOT NECESSARY TOWARD 
CHRISTIANITY. 
DR. CHALMERS. 

i. With what important questions does the writer introduce this 
article ? 

2. When was it that the strength went out of the church ? 

3. What was the effect of substituting a warfare of politics for a 

warfare of principles ? 

4. How did the cause of reformation prosper when it had to 

fight against pains and penalties ? 

5. What has it done with pains and penalties in its favor ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 523 

INEFFICACY OF MERE MORAL PREACHING. 
DR. CHALMERS. 

i. How did Dr. Chalmers preach to his flock for twelve years ? 

2. What results would have satisfied him ? 

3. What important thought never occurred to him during all this 

time ? 

4. In what condition might a man be, and still be upright and 

honorable in the eyes of society ? 

5. What essential principles had the doctor been neglecting 

during all these twelve years? 

6. What had he, nevertheless, been pressing upon his people ? 

7. What reformations occurred as the result of his preaching ? 

8. How did he have to change his manner of preaching, before 

even the partial results he had aimed at were realized ? 

9. How does he tell his parishioners that they, poor as they 

are, may reclaim the great ones of the land to the acknowl- 
edgment of the Christian faith ? 

10. What lesson have they taught him ? 

11. What does he hope to do with this lesson which he has gath- 

ered from their humble cottages ? 

BUILDING- FOR ETERNITY. 



1. In what respects will the experiences of the graduating class 

be alike ? 

2. When is it that a difference will be seen in them ? 

3. What standard of character lies deeper than the vanities of 

power, or the pomp of glory ? 

4. How does the poet speak of the common lot and common 

experiences of all men ? 

5. In what do we find marked distinctions among men ? 

6. In the eternal world what equality will exist between kings 

and slaves ? 

7. How will the capacities of mind be measured ? 



524 SELECTIONS. 

8. What is life's probation task ? 

9. What does the soul of man create for itself ? 

10. What tends to give it a nobler strength in heaven ? 

11. What does pride lead men to do ? 

12. Describe the softer path through life. 

13. Where is the chart written that tells us how to traverse that 

path? 

14. What is it to walk in that delightful way ? 

15. What are we to do when life shall have become a weariness, 

and hope thirsts for serener waters ? 

SANITY OF TRUE GENIUS. 
CHARLES LAMB. 

1. What does Mr. Lamb think about the position — taken by 

some — that high poetic genius is allied to insanity? 

2. How does true poetic genius manifest itself ? 

3. How does Cowley speak of this supreme control of the judg- 

ment ? 

4. What is the ground of the mistake which supposes a poet's 

mind to be in an abnormal state when he pours out his 
best effusions ? 

5. How does the true poet dream ? 

6. What position does he maintain toward his subject ? 

7. How does he walk the groves of his imaginary Eden ? 

8. What regions can his imagination traverse without becoming 

intoxicated ? 

9. To what sovereign is he beautifully loyal, even when he 

appears most to betray and desert her ? 

10. How are great and little wits [poets] distinguished ? 

11. What weakness does the would-be poet show, even in descri- 

bing real and every-day life ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 525 



SUPERIORITY OF THE MORAL OVER THE INTELLECTUAL 
NATURE OF MAN. 

GEORGE HENRY LEWES. 

i. Why is it that strength of will is the quality that most needs 
to be cultivated in mankind ? 

2. Why are we apt to overestimate the value of talent, and 

underrate the importance of the will ? 

3. What are the offices of each ? 

4. By what figure does the writer show why it is that the man 

with a strong intellect and a weak will so often goes 
astray ? 

5. Of what does the writer become more thoroughly convinced 

as he grows older ? 

6. How does he show that knowledge is not the greatest thing in 

the world ? 

7. What is the tendency of our gaping, wondering dispositions ? 

8. What are worth more than all the talents in the world ? 

A PERFECT EDUCATION. 
JOHN W. FRANCIS. 

i. What does Mr. Francis regard as the real Hydra of free 
institutions ? 

2. What does he propose as a means of counteracting these evil 

tendencies ? 

3. What comparison does he make between these treasures of 

choice literature and other human agencies ? 

4. To what degree of elevation may these resources help to 

raise a man ? 

5. What do we find collected there ? 

6. For what may the volumes of the historian serve ? 

7. What patterns does literature afford ? 

8. What does it embody ? 

9. What charts may be found there ? What testimony ? 
10. What harp stands there ? 



526 SELECTIONS. 

ii. What instruments hang there ? 

12. What repose there in the sanctity of their self -emitted light ? 

13. How has the vast fane been raised and stored that contains 

such wondrous treasures ? 

14. What constitutes the mysterious combination called human 

nature ? 

15. What are the legitimate aims of a perfect education ? 



CHAPTER THREE. 
Studies in Nature* 

THE SKY. 
JOHN RUSKIN. 

i. In what part of creation does Nature seem to have done most 
for the mere purpose of pleasing man ? 

2. By what remarks does the author proceed to make this view 

apparent ? 

3. In what uninteresting way might the sky answer every 

essential purpose, so far as we know ? 

4. Of all the objects in nature, what is the sky alone continually 

producing for our delight ? 

5. Are these beauties and changes in the sky confined to any 

particular portions of the earth ? 

6. Does it require wealth, or facilities for traveling, in order to 

enjoy them ? 

7. How is it, in this respect, with the noblest scenes of earth ? 

8. For what good influences is the sky fitted, in all its functions? 

9. Through what varied aspects does it affect us ? 

10. What do most people fail to see in these wonderful manifes- 

tations ? 

11. How do they look upon them ? 

12. If, in our moments of insipidity, we turn to the sky as a last 

resort, which of its phenomena are we most likely to 
speak of ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 527 

13. Are most people apt to look upon and admire those exquisite 

features which are meant to exalt the soul of man ? 

14. What significant questions are asked by the author of this 

article ? 

15. Can the highest effects of the sublime be produced by the 

fierce, destroying elements of the tempest and the whirl- 
wind ? 

16. What allusion is made to the Scriptures ? 

17. What is the character of those susceptibilities of our nature 

which can be moved only through lampblack and lightning? 

18. Enumerate and describe the means through which the lesson 

of devotion is chiefly taught. 

Remarks. — This selection combines the strength of 
prose with the charm of poetry. In many parts, it is a 
prose poem ; for the imagery is poetic. The author's 
views may appear visionary to some ; but what he 
portrays is a reality to him, and may be made so to 
others. 

The beauties he describes really exist, and when the 
scales have fallen from our eyes, we shall see them as 
he does. The genial and inspiring influences which he 
describes are also realities, and may become such to all 
who will open their hearts to them. 

LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS. 
MATTHEW ARNOLD. 

i. How is the poet situated as he writes, or thinks, this poem ? 

2. What stand at the head of the glade ? 

3. What sounds does he hear ? 

4. What movements does he behold ? 

5. What is he lead to exclaim, as he meditates upon the endless 

activity of the vegetable life about him ? 

6. What picture does he draw of the tired angler who has been 

fishing in a mountain stream ? 



528 SELECTIONS. 

7. Why cannot the poet be happy in the huge world which roars 

hard by ? 

8. What does he mean by being breathed upon by the rural 

Pan ? — He was early imbued with a love of rural scenes. 

9. What has the poet often been made to think, when sur- 

rounded by the distracting turmoil of city life ? 

10. How does he express his pleasure at having found so peaceful 

a place as that in which he now rests ? 

11. How does he describe the change that will take place at the 

close of the day ? 

12. What does he pray that it may be his to feel ? 

13. What kind of will does he desire ? 

14. What power would he have given him ? 

15. What influence does he wish to have exerted upon him ? 

16. What does he mean by not wishing to die before he has begun 

to live ? — He wishes to live long enough to learn how to 
appreciate and enjoy life in the highest and truest sense. 

17. Write a paraphrase of the poem. 

THE BRIGHTNESS OF NATURE CONTRASTED WITH 
HUMAN SORROWS. 

GEORGE ELIOT. 

i. What thoughts does one like to cherish at the opening of 
spring ? 

2. What creatures seem to share the same feeling with us ? 

3. How does the landscape appear ? 

4. How do these things impress one as he drives or rides over 

the valleys and hills ? 

5. How has the writer been reminded of these scenes when trav- 

eling in foreign countries ? 

6. What, standing by the roadside, has, at such times, sad- 

dened her feelings ? 

7. By what beauties of nature was it often environed ? 

8. How would this image of agony appear to a traveler who 

should suddenly come to this world, knowing nothing of 
the story of man's life upon it ? 



QUESTIONS OX PART SECOND. 529 

What might be hidden behind the apple blossoms, among the 
golden corn, or under the boughs of the wood, without his 
knowing of it or dreaming of it ? 

Why is it no wonder that man's religion has much of sorrow 
in it, and that he needs a suffering Savior ? 



AN ENGLISH LANDSCAPE. 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

From "Aurora Leigh." 

Remarks. — This little extract is a cutting rebuke to 
those who take a pessimistic view of life ; and yet it is all 
done in a playful and delightful manner. There are 
exquisite touches in it that can be enjoyed, but never 
described. Notice one in the introductory lines, and 
another in the questions near the close. The descrip- 
tion of an English landscape is all included in fifteen 
short lines ; yet where can a more true, a more vivid, or 
a more comprehensive panorama be found? It affords 
a fine study for those who need to learn the art of 
putting much in little. 

THE HUMMING-BIRD. 
JOHN JAMES AUDUBON. 

i. What effect should the beauty and grace of the humming- 
bird have upon every one who beholds him ? 

2. When does the humming-bird appear in our climate ? 

3. What friendly office does the humming-bird perform for the 

flowers which he visits ? 

4. Describe the movements of the bird as he examines the 

flowers. 

5. What are all visited by him in their turn ? 

6. What does he meet with everywhere ? 

34 



530 SELECTIONS. 

7. How is his throat described ? The upper part of his body ? 

His flight? 

8. How does he move from one flower to another ? 

9. How far north does he extend his journeyings ? 

10. How does he avoid being caught by the severe cold of a north- 
ern climate ? 

THE CLOUD. 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 

i. What does the cloud do for the flowers ? For the leaves ? 
The buds ? 

2. Where are the buds rocked ? 

3. How does the cloud laugh ? 

4. Point out the rhetorical figures in the first stanza, and explain 

their literal meaning, showing why they are appropriate. 

5. What suggests the idea that the pines groan aghast ? How 

does the cloud sleep ? 

6. Who is the cloud's pilot ? Where does he sit ? 

7. Where is the thunder imprisoned ? How does it behave ? 

8. Where does the lightning pilot guide the cloud ? 

9. In what does the upper cloud bask, even when rain is falling 

on the earth beneath ? 

10. How is the sunrise described ? What does it do 

11. By what simile is this action illustrated ? 

12. Describe the evening scene. Explain the metaphor in the last 

part of the stanza. The simile. 

13. Paraphrase the fourth stanza. Note and literalize the eight 

rhetorical figures which it contains. 

14. How does the cloud embellish the sun and the moon ? 

15. When are the volcanoes dimmed and the stars made to reel 

and swim ? 

16. How is the cloud represented as bridging the sea ? 

17. What are the columns, or abutments, of the bridge ? 

18. Describe the rainbow scene. 

19. Paraphrase the sixth stanza.* 

20. Note and explain its rhetorical figures. 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 53l 

Analysis. — i. Useful offices of the cloud. 2. Jour- 
neyings. 3. Sunrise and sunset effects. 4. Moonlight 
scenes. 5. The bridge of cloud, and the triumphal arch 
of the rainbow. 6. Origin and evanescent character of 
the cloud. 

Remarks. — The most striking characteristics of this 
poem are its profusion of figures and luxuriance of 
imagination. To the casual reader the subject may 
seem hidden under extravagant ornamentation ; but 
careful examination will show that the figures — nearly 
all of them at least — are not only delicate and beautiful, 
but well-founded. The flights of imagination, though 
bordering on the fanciful, are not affected. They traverse 
the natural air of the writer ; though it must be con- 
fessed that he inhabits an atmosphere too rare for 
ordinary beings to sustain themselves in for any great 
length of time, and that he is sometimes hard to follow. 



AN APOSTROPHE TO WINTER. 
WILLIAM COWPER. 

i. How is personified winter described ? 

2. How is winter commonly regarded ? 

3. Why is it dreaded ? 

4. How does the poet regard winter, notwithstanding its unlove- 

liness to others ? 

5. What does the poet mean by saying that the sun is held a 

prisoner in the undawning east ? 

6. Why is winter said to be impatient of the sun's stay, hurrying 

him down to the rosy west ? 

7. How does winter compensate for the loss of these hours of 

daylight ? 



532 SELECTIONS. 

8. What is as much dispersed during the busy cares of daylight 
as the members of the family may have been ? 

Analysis. — i. Personification and portraiture of win- 
ter. 2. Affection for the gloomy season. 3. Shortened 
days and lengthened evenings. 

Remarks. — This selection includes much in little. 
Its imagery is strong and vivid, without a trace of 
obscurity. It is crystallized thought ; hence it is true 
poetry. 

A WINTER MORNING. 



1. What fires the horizon this winter morning ? 

2. When do the clouds appear more ardent to flee from the fiery 

orb of the sun ? 

3. What do they most resemble ? 

4. Describe the effect of the sun's slanting rays upon the land- 

scape. 

5. How is the poet amused at his own shadow ? 

6. By what is the verdure of the plain deeply buried ? 

7. What effect have these early rays of sunlight upon weeds and 

coarse grass that are usually so unsightly ? 

8. Give the poet's description of the unsheltered cattle. 

9. How does he picture the carving of the haystack to obtain 

food for the cattle ? 

10. Give his portrait of the woodman, and of the dog that fol- 

lows him. 

11. How does the woodman regale himself, as he strides onward 

to his work ? 

12. Describe the actions of the domestic fowls that come at the 

housewife's call. 

13. Write a paraphrase of this selection. 

14. Point out the rhetorical figures. 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 533 

Analysis. — i. The rising sun and its effect upon the 
landscape. 2. The patient cattle and the swain who 
feeds them. 3. The woodman with his dog and pipe. 
4. The housewife and her fowls. 

Remarks. — This poem is remarkably realistic. Each 
scene is accurately and minutely drawn. Nothing is 
omitted, yet every detail is interesting. Those who 
paraphrase the selection will soon be convinced that the 
poet has wasted no words, and that he has chosen them 
with consummate skill. Nothing could be more simple 
than the subjects here presented ; yet one needs but to 
yield himself to the influences of the lines, in order to 
find that they are genuinely poetic. What a contrast 
between this and the artificial style of Pope, who had 
been so popular ! 

THE ICE-PALACE. 
COWPER. 

1. With what rhetorical figure does the selection begin ? 

2. How is the building of the palace poetically described ? 

3. What might poetry, in imagination, place in such a palace ? 

4. What are winter's troops, and what his weapons ? 

5. How silently did the fabric rise ? 

6. How was it made one solid whole ? 

7. How was it lighted ? 

8. How was it furnished ? 

9. What was the origin, and what was the destiny, of this scene 

of evanescent glory ? 

10. How was it a fit emblem of human grandeur and the court of 

kings ? 

11. How do great princes, like children, try to delight themselves 

in play ? 

12. How do some of them amuse the dull, sad years of an indo- 

lent life ? 



534 SELECTIONS. 

13. How do these great princes seem to regard the world ? 

14. Paraphrase the selection. 

15. Point out and amplify the rhetorical figures. 

16. Give an analysis of the selection. 

17. Select passages that impress you as apt or beautiful. 

Remarks. — It will be noticed that, on whatever sub- 
ject Cowper writes, he infuses into it a wise philosophy, 
pure morals, and a reverent tone. But these important 
lessons are not obtrusive : they grow out of the subject 
naturally, and afford real pleasure to a thinking mind. 
It is true, however, that in his reflective mood he some- 
times wanders on and on from one thing to another 
until the reader forgets where he started in, and the 
author seems to have forgotten it also. Yet we have 
trodden a delightful path with him, and perhaps we 
have no need to retrace it, since he can still lead, us 
on, showing us new beauties without end. 

DESCENT OF THE OHIO. 

AUDUBON. 

i. Describe the shores of the Ohio as, in their primeval state, 
they appeared to the naturalist in the month of October. 

2. What phenomenon was wrought by the rich and glowing hue 

of the sun ? 

3. Describe the descent of the river. 

4. What seems to have been the attitude of nature toward this 

portion of our country ? 

5. What peculiarity may the traveler observe as he ascends or 

descends the Ohio ? 

6. What makes the river in some places seem a lake of moderate 

extent instead of a stream ? 

7. How did the naturalist look upon the alteration that cultiva- 

tion would soon produce upon the banks of this river ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 535 

8. What were the sounds of evening, and what was their effect ? 

9. How were the travelers greeted when daylight returned ? 

10. What traffic did they observe ? 

11. What does the writer say of the pleasure given him on this 

trip ? 

12. What reflections pass through the mind of the naturalist, as 

he contemplates this journey ? 

13. How do these considerations affect him ? 

PRECIPICES OF THE ALPS. 
JOHN RUSKIN. 

1. Describe the appearance of these awful precipices of the 

Alps. 

2. How is their desolation set forth ? 

3. What is unknown to them ? 

4. What sounds are never heard there ? 

5. How is this mysterious silence sometimes broken ? 

6. What is sometimes the only thing that moves or feels in all 

the waste of weary precipice that darkens five thousand 
feet of the blue depth of heaven ? 

NATURE AND INNOCENCE. 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

i. How old is the maiden here described ? 

2. Portray the environments of her home. 

3. What benediction does the poet pronounce upon her ? 

4. Why does he feel prompted to pray for her when he is far 

away? 

5. To what does he compare her ? 

6. Of what has she no need ? 

7. What does she wear upon her forehead ? 

8. From what do the smiles spring that overspread her counte- 

nance ? 

9. What are the causes of the only restraint she manifests ? 



536 SELECTIONS. 

10. How do they affect her gestures ? 

1 1. To what does the poet compare her strife with these thoughts 

that are beyond her power of expression in words ? 

Remarks. — This extract is characteristic of Words- 
worth. He presents us with a natural scene which 
comprises grandeur, beauty, and quiet loveliness. There 
are the gray old rocks, the trees, the lawn, the water- 
fall, the silent lake, the little bay, the quiet road, the 
humble home. With these he associates a human 
embodiment of natural loveliness, purity, and simplicity. 
She seems a part of the scene just described — a picture 
with an appropriate setting. 

Having thus given interest to the landscape by asso- 
ciating with it a living soul, he proceeds to the study of 
character, and the interpretation of thought and motive ; 
and with all, he mingles his own emotions. Thus it is 
throughout the most of his writings. They are a study 
of the thoughts and motives that underlie character. 
Natural scenery, though clearly and healthfully pre- 
sented, seems introduced for the sole purpose of show- 
ing how it may soften and refine the human heart, 
directing it upward to the Creator of all things. 



AN EVENING- EXCURSION ON THE LAKE. 
WORDSWORTH. 

i. What remarks did the lady make ? 

2. What did these remarks suggest ? — A ride on the lake. 

3. Who of all the company seemed the most delighted at this suj 

gestion ? 

4. What did she do ? 

5. Describe the walk down to the lake. 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 537 

6. Describe the beautiful view that was presented to them as 

they came to the bridge over the little stream. 

7. What did the lady whisper, as she viewed this perfect reflec- 

tion ? 

8. With what feelings did the rest of the company view the 

scene ? 

9. As the company passed on, what did the lady say to one who 

was walking beside her ? 

10. What power did she say was given her while listening to the 

old man's words ? 

11. How did she sometimes feel afterward ? 

12. What illustration did she use ? 

13. How was the conversation broken off ? 

14. How does the poet express his delight in using the oars, as he 

had so often used them in earlier years ? 

15. By what figure does he describe the progress of the boat ? 

16. What choice did the vicar place before them with regard to 

a place for landing ? 

17. How did the poet answer them ? 

18. Describe the scenery that surrounded them. 

19. As they passed onward, what was produced by the same fea- 

tures differently combined ? 

20. Can such beauty be fully portrayed by poet or painter ? 

21. Who, alone, can make it his property ? 

22. What is the best that pencil or pen can do ? — It is to describe 

the sweet influences which such scenes produce. 

23. How did the company regale and amuse themselves on the 

island where they landed ? 

24. What did one of the company say about the fire that had 

lately burned so brightly for them ? 

25. Of what did he regard it as an emblem, and what did it illus- 

trate ? 

26. Describe the sylvan scenery that was presented to them as 

they meandered along the shore on their homeward 
voyage ? 

27. What invited them to land ? 

28. As they climbed the hill, what views opened up before them ? 



538 SELECTIONS. 

29. As they admired this quiet scene, what was each anxious 

to do? 

30. What inspired this feeling ? 

31. What finally centered all their thoughts upon one grand 

display ? 

32. Describe this sunset scene. 

33. As the good priest burst forth in a prayer of thanksgiving and 

praise, of what did he say these glories were but a faint 
reflection ? 

34. Like what, will those become who are at last divested of all 

dishonor, and cleansed from mortal stain ? 

35. What did he pray to have spread throughout all lands ? 

36. Why should every nation hear, and every heart obey ? 

37. How has the way been prepared ? 

38. Describe the remainder of the homeward voyage. 

39. Write a paraphrase of each topic given in the analysis. 

Analysis. — 1. Preparation for the voyage. 2. The 
twofold image, and the thoughts it suggested. 3. The 
outward voyage. 4. Meditations on the scenery. 5. On 
the island. 6. Sylvan scenery on the homeward voyage. 
7. View from the headland height. 8. The glories 
of the sunset. 9. The pastor's prayer. 10. Closing 
scene. 



SCENE IN AN INDIAN FOREST. 
CHARLES KINGSLEY. 

i. Describe the inflowing of the stream at the further side of 
the lawn. 

2. Give a word-picture of the bank that rose up from the rocky 

basin. 

3. Describe the place where the stream left the lawn. 

4. What else was there that could delight the senses ? 

5. How were the necessities supplied ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 539 



PICTURE OF AN ISLAND. 
RICHARD HENRY DANA. 

i. How is the island situated, and what is its character ? 

2. What sounds are heard there ? 

3. Under what conditions does it present a beautiful scene ? 

4. Describe the inland dell. 

5. What mingles with the sounds of the Sabbath bell ? 

6. Where are the flocks feeding ? 

7. Write a paraphrase of the poem. 



MOUNTAINS . 

WILLIAM HOW ITT. 

i. How potent is the charm of mountains ? 

2.. What impresses the mind with their sublimity ? 

3. What causes the heart to bound ? 

4. What has an inspiriting effect ? 

5. What beauties have a softer influence ? 

6. What advantages has autumn for the visiting of the moun- 

tains of Great Britain ? 

7. Draw a pictorial word-sketch of the scenes presented from 

their summits. 

8. Where may still more imposing views be had ? 

9. What are some of the scenes of awful grandeur presented 

there ? 

10. What are some of their milder features ? 

11. What pleasant imaginings do we indulge concerning the inhab- 

itants of such regions ? 

12. What character do we naturally attribute to them, and why ? 

13. How does a home among mountains foster a spirit of freedom 

and independence ? 

14. When do these mountain ridges appear most glorious ? 

15. Who have looked forth from those stern, heaven-built walls ? 

16. What have they beheld, as they have looked down from these 

God-given defenses ? 



540 SELECTIONS. 

17. Repeat the author's outburst of gratitude when contemplating 

what mountains have done for man. 

18. What was Milton's exclamation ? 

19. What was it that so stirred his spirit ? 

20. How do mountains give beauty to the earth ? 

21. How do they furnish a proud heritage to an imaginative mind ? 

22. What causes the writer to be lost in admiration ? 

23. In what instances have mountains thus guarded the germi- 

nating of great principles and the beginnings of a higher 
civilization ? 

24. What does the geologist find among mountains ? 

25. How is it that the inhabitants of mountainous countries serve 

a like purpose as a record of the past ? 

26. What do they show us ? 

Analysis. — 1. Charm and influences of mountains 
in general. 2. Autumn beauties of the mountains of 
Britain. 3. Grander features of European mountains. 
4. Influences of mountains upon character. 5. The 
stronghold of freedom and home ties. 6. Rhapsody of 
the author. 

requirements. 

1. Develop each of the topics given in the analysis, making it 

either a written or an oral exercise, as circumstances may 
warrant. 

2. Point out some of the beauties and other excellences of the 

selection. 

3. Notice the defects, if there are any. 

4. Point out the rhetorical figures. 

5. Tell how the entire article impresses you. 

Remarks. — The piece clearly indicates the sincerity 
of the writer. He evidently feels all that he has written 
— and more. He realizes his inability to express his 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 541 

conceptions, hence his exclamatory outbursts. He seems 
to be writing from actual experience. He scarcely men- 
tions himself, and yet a strong personality pervades the 
entire production. He is an ardent painter, but his very 
ardor causes him to crowd his canvas till his objects 
become confused, to minds that are not highly imagi- 
native. 

THE SNOW-SHOWER. 
WILLIAM C. BRYANT. 

Remarks. — In the first two lines, the poet addresses 
his wife. He then goes on to describe the lake, the sky, 
and the falling of the snow. In the first stanza, he gives 
us a premonition of a pathetic sadness that runs like a 
thread through the entire poem. It is indicated in the 
fourth and eighth lines of the first stanza, and continued 
in the last line of all the others by the reiteration of the 
words — "In the dark and silent lake." Even in this 
short poem may be traced the characteristic tendency of 
the poet to find in everything an illustration of the 
serious, or pathetic, side of life. He calls the snow- 
flakes a " living swarm ; " they come from " chambers " 
beyond a misty veil. In these words he seems to refer 
to the mysterious origin of human life. The next two 
lines may suggest that some people lead for a time a 
careless, joyous life, while others, full of toil and care, 
push on with unflagging energy to the end of life ; but 
all, ' ' dropping swiftly or settling slow, meet, and are 
still, in the depths below." "Flake after flake," the 
snow drops into the "dark and silent lake:" one by 
one, men drop into the dark and silent grave. 



542 SELECTIONS. 

The third stanza seems still to be allegorical, illus- 
trating the different temperaments, characters, and con- 
ditions in human life. But "the sullen water buries 
them all." In the fourth stanza, the poet himself has 
explained his meaning by a figure of simile. The 
mated flakes, like the others, sink in "the dark and 
silent lake." In the fifth stanza the poet sees in the 
snowflakes myriads of people, — many of them fair, frail 
creatures, — hurrying on with headlong speed to their 
goal and dropping into oblivion. 

The tears in the lady's eyes show that similar 
thoughts have been suggested to her. She has been 
thinking of dear friends, " who were for a time, and now 
are not." They seem to her "like these fair children 
of cloud and frost, that glisten a moment and then are 
lost." But the poet calls her attention to an emblem of 
hope ; for — 

" A gleam of blue on the water lies; 
And far away, on the mountainside, 

A sunbeam falls from the opening skies." 



AUTUMN: TWO WAYS OF LOOKING AT THE DYING- YEAR. 
ROBERT SOUTHEY. 

i. How does Southey look upon the successive changes of the 
year ? 

2. What thoughts do the autumn leaves awaken in the mind of 

Southey's friend ? 

3. What forlorn view does this friend take of the approaching 

winter ? 

4. How do the many-colored, dying leaves speak to Southey ? 

5. What emblem does his friend find in the beauties of the 

autumnal year ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 543 

6. What do these same things show to Southey ? 

7. What does his friend continually discover in this fair world ? 

8. What does Southey wish that his friend might have ? 

9. How could he then look upon life, evil, and the strifes and 

troubles of the world ? 
:o. What effect would thus be produced ? 

THE GARDENS OF THE VATICAN. 
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 

i; Describe the gardens. 

2. Repeat the apostrophe. 

3. What does the writer seek in vain in this lovely garden ? 

4. How does she describe the spiritual desolation of the Vatican? 

5. What prayer does she utter at the close ? 

6. Write a paraphrase of the poem. 



MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE. 

N. HAWTHORNE. 

An Extract. 

i. Describe the sunset that came at the close of a stormy day. 

2. In what spirit did Hawthorne and his friend Channing take 

their excursions into the solitudes of nature ? 

3. Describe the stream against whose current they rode, on one 

of these outings. 

4. Whence does the stream come flowing ? 

5. How do the river and the wood seem to be talking to each 

other ? 

6. Of what does the river dream, as it sleeps along its course ? 

7. What did the slumbering river hold in its bosom ? 

8. What strange questions does Hawthorne propose ? 

9. What partial answer does he suggest ? 

10. How do the trees seem to resist the passage of the river ? 

11. How does the writer describe the banks of the river ? 

12. What flowers does he mention as adorning the scene ? 



544 SELECTIONS. 

13. What does he say of the grape-vines ? 

14. What effect had the sinuous course of the stream on the view ? 

15. By what living creatures was the slumbrous quiet enlivened ? 

16. Describe the landing, and the cooking of their rude meal. 

17. What effect had their mirth and their cooking upon the solem- 

nity of the forest ? 

18. What is said of the conversation ? 

19. What was the chief profit of those wild days ? 

20. What whispers did they continue to hear after they had 

returned to their homes and the thronged pavements of 
the city ? 
2io Note the allusions and exquisite passages in this selection. 

Remarks. — One can scarcely imagine anything more 
beautiful than the nature-picture which Hawthorne here 
gives us. But without the allusions, the reflections and 
peculiar suggestions, which frame and ornament the 
picture, making it glow with living freshness, it would 
be comparatively tame. This selection is characteristic 
of the style which gives such a charm to all the writings 
of this gifted author. To those who are susceptible to 
such charms, no remarks are necessary, and to those 
who have not acquired this susceptibility it can only be 
recommended that, aided by the poet's interpretation, 
they become more intimate with nature, learning thus 
to hear the suggestions which she has for us all. 



TO A MOUSE. 
ROBERT BURNS. 

i. In what tender words does the poet address the mouse, and 

assure it of his kind intentions ? 
2. How does the poet excuse what we call the thievish habits of 

the little creature ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 545 

3. In what touching words does he bewail the destruction of the 

mouse's dwelling ? 

4. How does he describe the mouse's comfortable expectations, 

and the calamity that so suddenly destroyed them ? 

5. How does he express sympathy for the unfortunate little 

thing ? 

6. How does the mouse's experience find a parallel in that of 

men ? 

7. How does he compare the creature's condition with that of 

his own ? 

Note. — "Pattle" means a plow staff ; "whyles," sometimes; " maun," ;«a^ / 
" a daimen icker in a thrave," an ear of corn in 24 sheaves ; " laive," rest ; "big," 
build; "foggage," rank grass ; "snell," sharp ; " thole," endure; " cranreuch," 
hoar-frost. "But house or hald " means without house or hold. 

ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME. 
ROBERT BURNS. 

i. Write a paraphrase of the poem. 

RURAL SCENES: REFLECTIONS. 
WILLIAM COWPER. 

i. What do the poet and his companion first notice from the 
eminence where they stand ? 

2. Describe the scene which presents itself as they look along 

the plain where the Ouse slowly winds. 

3. What do they see on the slope that rises beyond the stream 

till it seems to recede into the clouds ? 

4. What praise is justly due to these scenes ? 

5. What besides rural sights have power to exhilarate the spirit 

and restore the tone of languid nature ? 

6. Describe the music of the winds, and tell its effect. 

7. Describe the music of the waters. 

8. Compare the music of animated nature with that of inani- 

mate nature. 

9. What birds besides the song-birds have charms for the poet's 

ear ? 

35 



546 SELECTIONS. 

10. Why is it that these sounds, so inharmonious in themselves, 

are pleasing to him? 
ii. Describe the descent from the eminence, the crossing of the 

gulf, and the ascent on the opposite side. 

12. How does the mole represent the great ones of the earth ? 

13. Having gained another summit, what evidence does the poet 

find there of the vanity of mankind? 

14. What causes the eye to exult, as it looks off from this height 

of land ? 

15. Describe the letting out of the sheep from the sheepfold. 

16. What amusing scene do the hay-wagons afford ? 

17. What charms are afforded by the woodland scene ? 

18. What variety is afforded by different species of trees ? 

19. How is the appearance of the Ouse beautifully described ? 

20. How is the little naiad prettily introduced ? 

21. What beautiful sights does the poet discover while walking 

through the generous nobleman's grounds ? 

22. What innocent deception is accomplished by the walks ? 

23. Describe the threshing scene. 

24. How does this sturdy laborer convert the primal curse into a 

mercy ? 

25. How does all that is, subsist ? 

26. How does nature maintain her health, her beauty, her fer- 

tility ? 

27. What is the only condition under which she can live ? 

28. What upholds the world ? 

29. Describe the good offices of the winds. 

30. How does the oak illustrate the truth already under consid- 

eration ? 

31. How does the same universal law apply to man ? 

32. Contrast the condition of the slothful with that of the active. 

33. Point out the mental and moral advantages of an active life. 

34. How is the coy maiden, Ease, described ? 

35. What is nature's dictate ? 

36. What do some people seem to admire more than they do the 

performances of a God ? 

37. How are the works of Art compared with those of Nature ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 54' 

38. What special value have the works of a great painter ? 

39. Which of the senses alone can they please ? 

40. What advantages has Nature in this respect ? 

41. Where does she spread her bounteous feast ? 

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 



i. What thoughts and passages do you most admire in this sweet 
poem ? 

2. Give a synopsis of his apostrophe to the daisy. 

3. How does he connect human interests with the luckless fate 

of the pretty flower ? 

4. How does he apply it to himself ? 

HOW TO FIND THE HIGHEST ENJOYMENT IN NATURE. 
COWPER. 

i. What must one do who would appreciate the works of nature ? 

2. When once admitted to His embrace, what will one discover ? 

3. What change will take place in him ? 

4. How are brutes that graze the mountain top affected by the 

grand scenery about them ? 

5. How does man too often view the works of God unrolled in 

beautiful panoramas around him ? 

6. How differently does he contemplate these things whose mind 

has been touched from heaven, and schooled in sacred 
wisdom ? 

7. Where did this world, with all its wonders, exist before it took 

visible form ? — In the thoughts of God. 

8. What is such a mind enabled to discern ? 

9. What is the cause for which the unconverted mind shuns the 

author of light and happiness, and for which, when con- 
verted, that same mind loves and adores him ? — God's 
purity. 
[o. When once made free by being reconciled to God, what 
breaks on the soul ? 



548 SELECTIONS. 

ii. What voice of song is never heard by mortal ears, till they 
have been touched by power divine ? 

12. What does nature then disclose to the enraptured soul ? 

13. What is the source and center of all minds and their only 

point of rest ? 

14. What is the condition of minds that depart from him ? 

15. Of what is he the source ? 

16. What is the crowning gift of all, without which, we are poor, 

and with which, we are rich, though all else be taken 
from us ? 

17. Write a paraphrase of each topic specified in the analysis. 

Analysis. — 1. Acquaintance with God necessary to 
the enjoyment of his works. 2. The meager pleasure 
which many take in his works. 3. How they are viewed 
by the truly enlightened mind. 4. The transformation 
which enables men fully to appreciate the works of 
nature, and above all, their author 

Remarks. — The fervent piety and sincere devotion 
of the poet are manifested throughout this selection in 
terms that cannot be mistaken. The same lofty, though 
tender and genial, spirit pervades all his writings. He 
recognizes the Creator as the source and center of all 
wisdom and goodness. To him, nature is but a revela- 
tion of its divine author, and the value of everything has 
to be balanced and estimated in the scales which God 
has furnished in his Word and in his works. 

AMONG THE ISLES OF SHOALS. 
CELIA THAXTER. 

i. Why may the Isles of Shoals well be bleak and bare ? 

2. How do they appear at first sight ? 

3. How have the barren rocks been made to look hoary, as if 

with age ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 549 

4. How are the stern outlines softened a little in summer ? 

5. Why does it seem scarcely worth while to land upon these 

forbidding shores ? 

6. To whom will nature even here appeal with such a novel 

charm that he will half forget the beauties of the mainland ? 

7. What appear no longer desirable to him ? 

8. Why is this ? 

9. By what is the stranger struck who lands upon these islands 

for the first time ? 

10. What makes this impression ? 

11. What soon begin to reveal a strange beauty to him ? 

12. When will this feeling increase upon him ? 

13. What lulls him in his sleep ? 

14. How does the morning greet him ? 

15. What does all the watery world around him resemble ? 

16. What are the only sounds that break the silence ? 

17. Describe the scene in detail. 

18. What do the bare, bleached granite rocks excel in beauty, 

when the first blush of sunrise glorifies and softens them ? 

19. What is the condition of all things there, at such an hour ? 

20. What changes take place as the day goes on ? 

21. What steals down the coast line, and seems to remove it 

leagues away ? 

22. What reflections are suggested at such a sight ? 

23. What are among the chief agents in thus soothing one into 

repose and transient forgetfulness ? 



THE SNOW-STORM. 
t JAMES THOMSON. 

i. Describe the falling of the snow. 

2. What is said of the fields ? 

3. What is the only thing that breaks the brightness which 

covers all ? 

4. What causes the woods to bow their head ? 

5. What is accomplished before the sun sets ? 

6. How is the ox pictured ? 



550 SELECTIONS. 

7. What is said of the fowls of heaven ? 

8. Describe the actions of the redbreast. 

g. What are the milder animals of the forests forced to do ? 

10. How do the sheep behave ? 

11. Write a paraphrase of the selection. 

12. Give a brief analysis of it. 

Remarks. — In presenting this winter scene, the poet 
contents himself with a simple description. It is clear 
and unaffected, but vivid. He draws no conclusions, 
makes no applications, but trusts in the suggestiveness 
of the scene to produce an impression upon the reader. 



HYMN OF PRAISE. 
THOMSON. 

i. The rolling year is full of whom ? 

2. What attributes of God can be traced in the beauties of 

spring ? 

3. Repeat the poet's epitome of these beauties. 

4. How does he set forth the delights of the summer months ? 

5. What does he say of the bounties of autumn ? 

6. What does he say of the imposing majesty of winter ? 

7. What is shown forth in the mysterious round of the seasons ? 

8. What combines to make them all equally interesting, though 

so diverse ? 

9. What is it that man often fails to mark in all this ? 

10. How does the poet epitomize the work of this ever-busy 

hand ? 

11. What rapturous invitation does the poet give ? 

12. How are the gentle gales admonished ? 

13. What are the fierce tempests called upon to do ? 

14. How are the brooks and rills addressed ? 

15. How are the headlong torrents, the softer floods, and the 

majestic ocean to honor their Creator ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 551 

1 6. For what benefits are the herbs, fruits, and flowers to contrib- 

ute their incense as a part of the great ceremonial of wor- 
ship ? 

17. What are the forests and the harvests to do ? 

18. What is said to the silent constellations of stars that watch in 

heaven ? 

19. Upon what ground does the poet liken the sun to the Creator? 

20. What is the sun admonished to write on nature with every 

beam of light ? 

21. Describe the majesty of the thunder. 

22. By what figure is its re-echoing from the hills brought out ? 

23. What part are the rocks and the valleys to act ? 

24. To what may hope look forward ? 

25. In what beautiful way does the poet bring out the part which 

the birds are to take in this universal hymn of praise ? 

Remarks. — After writing long poems, descriptive of 
the four seasons, the poet concludes with the grand 
hymn of which this extract is the greater part. The 
hymn affords a striking example of condensation. Into 
it the author puts the vital points of his entire book, 
and shows with great clearness the lessons of truth and 
adoration which nature has taught him, and which he 
wishes to impart to others. A spirit of worship per- 
vades the whole book, and particularly this beautiful 
hymn. In the changes which nature undergoes through- 
out the year, he sees only varied manifestations of the 
God who works through all. He gives an epitome of 
the beauties, the benefits, the sublimities, of spring, 
summer, autumn, and winter. 

He is then moved with deep admiration for the skill, 
the force divine, the magic art, by which all these charms 
are combined and blended into delightful harmony. He 
then enumerates some of the mysterious, the wonderful, 



552 SELECTIONS. 

workings of that mighty hand which not only created 
the earth, but works through it constantly in producing 
all the wonderful changes we behold. He deplores that 
men can look upon all these things with brute, uncon- 
scious gaze. 

He calls fervently upon all nature to join in a song 
of adoration, — upon the winds, the brooks and rills, 
torrents, floods, the ocean itself ; upon herbs, fruits and 
flowers, the forest, the harvests, the stars, the sun ; 
upon the rocks, the valleys, the woodlands with all their 
singing birds, — and finally (in a part not here given), 
upon man. The whole is full of sincere feeling and fer- 
vent devotion. It is not a thing simply to be read, 
but to be studied, line by line, in the spirit of its author, 
that we may imbibe some of the pure aspirations which 
stirred his soul. 



CHAPTER FOUR. 
Home Scenes and Influences. 

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 
ROBERT BURNS. 

i. How does the poet disclaim any mercenary end in addressing 
this poem to Mr. Aiken ? 

2. What is the highest reward that he seeks ? 

3. What does he sing ? 

4. How does he introduce the time of the year and of the day ? 

5. What does he introduce to give reality to the scene ? 

6. Describe the actions and feelings of the toil-worn cotter. 

7. What soon appears in view ? 

8. Describe the welcome given him by his children ? 

9. What cheers him as he comes within his cottage ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 553 

10. How did the scene affect him ? 

ii. What is the meaning of " kiaugh " ? — Anxiety. 

12. Who come dropping in by and by ? 

13. Whence, and from what occupations, do they come ? 

14. What is said of Jenny ? 

15. Describe the happy meeting of these brothers and sisters. 

16. What is the meaning of " spiers " ? — Inquires. Of " uncos " ? 

— News. 

17. How do the parents view their children ? 

18. How is the mother occupied ? 

19. What is the meaning of " gars " ? — Makes. 

20„ What good counsel does the father give the older children ? 

21. What higher counsel, and what assistance, were they to seek ? 

22. What is the meaning of " eydent " ? — Diligent. 

23. Describe the entrance of the visitor. 

24. How is he entertained ? 

25. What is the meaning of "ben"? — In. Of " hafflins " ? — 

Half. Of ' ' blate " ? — Bashful. Of ' ' lathef u' " ? — Hesi- 
tating. Of " lave " ? — Other people. 

26. How does the poet express his opinion of honest, pure- 

minded love ? 

27. Describe the evening meal. 

28. What is the meaning of " hawkie " ? — Cow. Of " hallan " ? 

— Inner wall. Of ' ' kebbuck " ? — Cheese. Of ' ' fell " ? — 
Spicy. Of " weel-hained " ? — Well saved. Of " towmond"? 

— Twelvemonth. Of " i' the bell " ? — In flower. 

29. Describe the preparations for evening worship. 

30. What is the meaning of "lyart haffets " ? — Gray cheeks. 

31. What is said of their singing ? 

32. When the priest-like father comes to read from the sacred 

page, what is he likely to select if he turns to the Old 
Testament ? 

33. What themes is he likely to follow if he turns to the New ? 

34. What hope springs up as the father prays ? 

35. How does the poet compare this sincere and humble worship 

with the pompous displays that are sometimes made in pub- 
lic congregations ? 



554 SELECTIONS. 

36. What warm request do the parents present to heaven after 

the children have retired to rest, or gone back to their 
places of service ? 

37. What springs from scenes like this ? 

38. What does the poet say of princes and lords ? 

39. How does he compare the cottage and the palace ? 

40. How does he address his native land ? 

41. What blessings does he ask for the hardy sons of rustic toil ? 

42. From what does he wish to have them preserved ? 

43. With what prayer does he close the poem ? 

INFLUENCE OF HOME. 
RICHARD HENRY DANA. 

i. What is the general influence of home upon the mind ? 

2. How does this state of mind enable us to meet afflictions ? 

3. In such a condition how can even vices be made to teach us 

a good lesson ? 

4. How does a home life relate us healthfully to the world ? 

5. How does it keep us from being deceived ? 

6. How does it keep us from oecoming pessimistic ? 

7. What is the safest way of coming into communion with 

mankind ? Why ? 

8. How is the domestic man put at ease in society ? 

9. What causes him to diffuse a pleasurable sense over those 

near him ? 

10. In what other ways is a domestic life beneficial ? 

11. What has God in his goodness ordained ? 

12. How may a man be made happy at home almost without 

heeding it ? 

CHILDREN ASLEEP. 
MATTHEW ARNOLD. 

i. How is the sleep of the children described ? 

2. Picture the moonlight and its effects. 

3. Describe the children. 

4. How does one of them seem to indicate his dreams ? 

5. Write a paraphrase of the poem. 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 555 



REPRESSION. 
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 

i. Of what is life said to consist ? 

2. To what belongs the duty of expression ? 

3. To what belongs the duty of repression ? 

4. What mistake is made by some very religious and moral 

people ? 

5. What great law do they forget ? 

6. How does the writer illustrate the effects of repression ? 

7. How do some people dwarf their own best faculties and 

impulses by repression ? 

8. What kind of barren life do some people spend together who 

really love and reverence each other ? 

9. What question is asked concerning sons and daughters ? 

10. What concerning husbands and wives, brothers and sisters ? 

11. How do they deceive themselves with respect to the time for 

expression ? 

12. What scripture is quoted ? 

13. What are the bitterest tears shed over graves ? 

14. What do people often say after death has separated their 

loved ones from them ? 

15. What are such words like ? 

16. Into what should every good thought blossom ? 

17. What is said about the different ways of expressing affection? 

18. What mistake is often made concerning relatives ? 

19. What, as well as things in nature, may be improved and 

strengthened by judicious cultivation ? 

20. What effect may neglect produce ? 

A NEW ENGLAND SNOW-STORM AND HOME SCENE. 
SYLVESTER JUDD. 

i. How long has it been snowing ? 

2. At whose home does the author propose to look in ? 

3. Why is the place inaccessible by any ordinary methods of 

travel ? 



556 SELECTIONS. 

4. What are the only means by which it can be approached ? 

5. Describe the outward appearance of the house and its sur- 

roundings. 

6. Describe the landscape. 

7. What seems to be the only token of life about the house ? 

8. Describe the scene within this buried home. 

9. Compare this description with the one given in " Snow-Bound." 

TO A SLEEPING CHILD. 
THOMAS HOOD. 

1. How does the poet find pathos in the sleep of an infant ? 

2. How much life does the child seem to have ? 

3. Sleep is a compromise between what ? 

4. How does he express his admiration for the child's beauty in 

sleep ? 

5. How is he impressed by the beauty of the awakened blossom ? 

HOME LIFE OF THE PRIMROSES. 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

i. How was the home situated ? 

2. How large a farm was connected with this little habitation ? 

3. How did it appear ? 

4. Describe the house. 

5. How was the inside made cheerful ? 

6. What does he call this home with its occupants ? 

7. In keeping with the laws which the vicar gave to his little 

republic, how was the day begun ? 

8. Describe the arrangements for the day. 

9. How was the noon-hour spent ? 

10. How were the vicar and his sons received when they came in 

at sunset from the labors of the day ? 

11. How were the evenings made agreeable ? 

12. With what exercise did the day close ? 

13. What difficulties did the vicar have to meet when Sunday 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 557 

14. Could he see that his moral lectures had done much to modify 

the tastes or dispel the vanity of his wife and daughters ? 

15. Describe the experiences of the first Sunday. 

16. Give the substance of the vicar's sound remarks. 

17. What effect did his lecture produce ? 

SALUTARY EFFECTS OF PARENTAL DISCIPLINE. 
THOMAS CARLYLE. 

i. What is our universal duty and destiny ? 

2. What is the fate of those who do not yield to it ? 

3. How does this emphasize the importance of early training ? 

4. How does he now feel about the severe discipline of his 

childhood ? 

5. From what motives, and in what spirit, was it administered ? 

6. What invaluable service was done him by his mother ? 

7. In what sense was she religious, and under what circum- 

stances ? 

8. How did she teach him reverence ? 

9. What is the effect of such example, especially in infancy ? 
10. What choice does the writer present ? 



CHAPTER FIVE. 
Studies in Character. 

THE LAST DAYS OF WASHINGTON. 

WASHINGTON IRVING. 

i. Describe Washington's occupations and state of health just 
before his last illness. 

2. What was he contemplating as one of the first improvements 

to be made ? . 

3. What reason did he give for making this change first of all ? 

4. What does his nephew say about the general's looks ? 

5. How did he appear on the morning when the nephew last 

parted from him ? 



558 SELECTIONS. 

6. What work had Washington just accomplished that showed 

his mind to be in a vigorous state as well as his body ? 

7. Relate the circumstances by which he was made ill. 

8. What reply did he make when urged to do something for 

his cold ? 

9. Relate the experiences of that night. 

10. How did Washington prescribe for himself ? 

11. To what extent were his wishes carried out ? 

12. What preparation did he make for death ? 

13. How did he look forward to that event ? 

14. How did the general show his anxiety for the comfort of 

those around him ? 

15. What request did he make of the doctor ? 

16. What were his last instructions ? 

17. Describe the death scene. 

18. How did Mrs. Washington conduct herself ? 

THE CARPENTER. 
GEORGE ELIOT. 

i. Describe the carpenter's shop and its surroundings. 

2. How is the carpenter introduced to the reader's notice ? 

3. What was this tall man singing ? 

4. Describe the appearance of the singer. 



CHARACTER OF ST. PAUL. 
DR. PALEY. 

i. What may be said of the ability and qualifications of St. 
Paul? 

2. To what did he devote his life and talents ? 

3. How is Paul's course of life graphically described by Dr. 

Paley ? 

4. What record have we of his doings ? 

5. How do the history and the letters agree ? 

6. From these records what do we learn concerning the associates 

he. had in this kind of work ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 559 

7. What opportunities had many of these men to know of the 

teachings of Christ, his miracles, and his resurrection ? 

8. What is said of the miraculous conversion of Paul and the 

miracles which he himself performed ? 

9. In view of all these things, what important question arises ? 
:o. What question must be decided concerning Paul himself, and 

the life he led ? 



MEN OF OUR TIMES. 
H. B. STOWE. 

i. What have our own days witnessed ? 

2. What may be said of the preparations for that battle ? 

3. Who are to be regarded as the Men of Our Times ? 

4. Who are included among this number ? 

5. Whom does the writer place foremost on the roll ? — Abraham 

Lincoln. 

6. How does the writer regard the war of the Rebellion ? 

7. What proof is given of the correctness of this view ? 

8. Who have taken sides with the cause of freedom the world 

over ? 

9. Who have been arrayed against it ? 

10. How did the laboring classes in foreign lands heroically stand 

by the cause that was to free the oppressed ? 

11. Why have they had courage and fortitude to do this ? 

12. In whose hands has the great contest been held ? 

13. According to the writer's view, how was the leader in this 

great work chosen ? 



O CAPTAIN ! MY CAPTAIN 
WALT WHITMAN. 

i. What are the chief merits of this poem ? 



560 SELECTIONS. 



JOAN OF ARC. 

DE gUINCEY. 

i. What parallel does the author draw between Joan of Arc and 
David, King of Israel ? 

2. What was it that made the great difference between the final 

fortune of the one and that of the other ? 

3. How is the prosperity of David contrasted with the fate of 

Joan ? 

4. How does the author express his faith in the girl's sincerity 

and truthfulness ? 

5. How did her pure aspirations give evidence of the genuineness 

and noble-heartedness of her conduct ? 

6. What will be her condition when the thunders of universal 

France shall proclaim the grandeur of her character ? 

7. What fulfilment has this prediction received in the awakening 

of France to a sense of Joan's true character ? 

8. What was her portion in this life ? 

9. Did she expect anything else ? 

10. What does the author represent her as saying ? 

11. From what belief did she never relax ? 

12. What glimpse does the author give of the manner in which 

she suffered death ? 

13. How does he describe the honors that were not for her who 

so richly deserved them ? 

14. How are her achievements enumerated ? 

15. Who opposed her in all this forward movement ? 

16. Who were her supporters ? 

17. How old was she when she had accomplished all this ? 

18. Did she become elated by her success ? 

19. How did she show her generosity and tenderness of heart even 

to her enemies ? 

20. How did her feelings find expression on the day when she 

had finished her work ? 

21. What did she pray that God would grant her for the remain- 

der of her life ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 561 



CHARLES SUMNER 
H. B. STOWE. 

i. What suggestion did Sumner indignantly repel ? 

2. What cheered him in the darkest hours ? 

3. How did he express his unwavering faith to a friend who 

commended his courage ? 

4. What have those words proved to be ? 

5. What significant questions does the writer ask ? 

6. What might be inscribed upon the graves of Douglas and 

Webster ? 

7. How did these men die ? 

8. With whom are they contrasted ? 

MAY AND NOVEMBER. 

N. HAWTHORNE. 

i. Describe the chamber where Phoebe Pyncheon slept. 

2. Describe the entrance of the morning sunlight, and the effect 

it produced. 

3. What were the thoughts and feelings of the waking girl ? 

4. How was she the more inclined to devotion ? 

5. What did she discover as she peeped out of the window ? 

6. Describe the rosebush and tell its origin. 

7. How did it seem to be offering its morning worship ? 

8. What valuable gift did Phoebe possess ? 

9. What magic effects can such a gift produce ? 

10. Upon what did Phoebe now exercise that gift ? 

1 1. What was the result of her efforts ? 

12. What helped to drive the gloom from the heretofore dismal 

room ? 

MARTIN LUTHER. 
DR. W. ROBERTSON. 

1. From what was Luther saved by a seasonable death ? 

2. Relate the circumstances that led to his death. 

3. For what was he raised up by Providence ? 

36 



562 SELECTIONS. 

4. In what opposite colors have his life and character been 

drawn ? 

5. Who were they who imputed to him not only the vices of a 

man, but the qualities of a demon ? 

6. How did others look upon him and his work ? 

7. How should the opinions of the present age be regulated con- 

cerning him ? 

8. What virtues must even his enemies allow him to have pos- 

sessed ? 

9. What further credit must be given him ? 

10. How were his magnanimity and generosity manifested in his 

life? 

11. How were these extraordinary qualities alloyed ? 

12. To what could these not be imputed ? 

13. From what do they seem to have taken their rise ? 

14. How is this view explained ? 

15. What may be said of his confidence, his courage, his firm- 

ness ? 

CHARACTER OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
DR. W. ROBERTSON. 

i. What were the charms and accomplishments of Mary, Queen 
of Scots ? 

2. What may be said of her attachments ? 

3. Why was she so impatient of contradiction ? 

4. Why did dissimulation seem so natural and so harmless to 

her ? 

5. How was she affected by flattery and dissimulation ? 

6. What brief estimate of her character does the author give in 

a single sentence ? 

7. How was she betrayed into errors, and even crimes ? 

8. What were among the causes of her almost uninterrupted suc- 

cession of calamities ? 

9. Can her course of action be excused by the corrupt maimers of 

the age in which she lived ? 
10. How will humanity treat this part of her character ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 563 

ii. To what may some generously impute her actions ? 

12. What may be said of her sufferings ? 

13. How are we likely to feel while thinking of her sufferings and 

distresses ? 



VICTORY THROUGH SUFFERING-- 
LONGFELLOW. 

i. How does the poet describe the location of the city of 
Philadelphia ? 

2. How does he set forth the charms of the place ? 

3. How was Evangeline, the wandering maiden, made to feel 

here ? 

4. What were some of the causes of her contentment ? 

5. By what beautiful figures does the poet illustrate the clearing 

away of the turmoils which had haunted her mind for 
so many years ? 

6. Was Gabriel forgotten ? 

7. How did he appear to her ? 

8. What lesson had a life of trial taught her ? 

9. How is this diffusion of her love illustrated ? 

10. What was her only hope or wish in life ? 

11. How did she spend her years ? 

12. What fell upon the city at length ? 

13. How is the effect of the plague figuratively described ? 

14. Under the scourge of this relentless oppressor, what was the 

only difference between the rich and the poor ? 

15. How was the almshouse situated at that time, and what sur- 

rounds it now ? 

16. What do its humble walls seem to echo ? 

17. How did the dying look upon Evangeline as she nursed 

them ? 

18. Describe her passage to the almshouse on a Sabbath 

morning. 

19. What did she hear as she mounted the stairs ? 

20. How did the calmness of the hour affect her ? 



564 SELECTIONS. 

21. How did she enter the chamber of sickness, and move about 

among the afflicted ones ? 

22. How did the room look, and what changes had taken place 

during the night ? 

23. What sudden change came upon the feelings of Evangeline ? 

24. How did her feelings find expression ? 

25. Who lay on a pallet before her ? 

26. How did he look ? 

27. What caused the red on his lips, and of what does it remind 

the poet ? 

28. Though motionless, senseless, dying, how was he affected by 

Evangeline's cry ? 

29. What gentle words followed ? 

36. What passed through his mind as in a dream ? 

31. What reality followed the vision ? 

32. How did he expire, after this one look of recognition had 

passed between them ? 

33. What was ended now ? 

34. How did Evangeline express herself ? 



MEN OF GENIUS. 
THOMAS CARLYLE. 

i. Among what class of men are to be found the chief bene- 
factors of mankind ? 

2. What do they do for us ? 

3. To what are they compared ? 

4. What does the author regret ? 

5. Why is it vain to murmur in their behalf ? 

6. What is said of the hardships of their course ? 

7. What recompense may an author of true genius find, even 

though his work is" not appreciated ? 

8. What is it distressing to survey ? 

9. On the other hand, what is doubly cheering ? 

10. What rank do such men hold ? 

11. What should he do who would write heroic poems ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 565 

MEN OF REAL GENIUS ARE RESOLUTE WORKERS. 
GEORGE HENRY LEWES. 

i. Of what is there an overplus at the present day ? 

2. What is thought of common sense ? 

3. What does the history of art show us concerning men of 

real genius ? 

4. What did these men know ? 

5. What have the great masters of art often been obliged to do ? 

6. What sensible advice is given by a subtle author ? 

7. How does the writer prompt an artist or an author to ener- 

getic and persistent work ? 

8. How may one be consoled for failures ? 

9. In what does the magic of the pen lie ? 

10. What is the effect of dallying with one's purpose ? 

11. How does the printer's boy sometimes help an author to write 

well? 

12. What is the secret of his success ? 

HUMBLE WORTH. 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

i. To what themes have poets too often devoted their genius ? 

2. What, in the opinion of Wordsworth, is more worthy to be 

celebrated ? 

3. Where will the memory of the just survive, even though not 

celebrated here ? 

4. How does he locate the home of a gentle dalesman, whose 

virtues he would sing ? 

5. What gift was denied this man from early childhood ? 

6. What was the condition of the mountain valley to him ? 

7. What delightful songs were unknown to him ? 

8. What stirring scenes were as silent to him as a picture ? 

9. How was he upheld ? 

10. How did he occupy himself ? 

11. What ordinary incentives to labor did he lack ? 



566 SELECTIONS. 

12. How did he always make himself an agreeable inmate of 

another's home ? 

13. How did he find society and refresh his thoughts ? 

14. What was the result of this constant intercourse with books ? 

15. What did he find in them to cheer him on stormy days, and 

during long winter evenings ? 

16. How was he appreciated and made welcome by those with 

whom he lived ? 

17. How was his funeral graced ? 

18. How are his name and character still preserved ? 

19. What is said of the offices of the pine-tree, whose murmur he 

could never hear while living ? 

20. How does the poet apostrophize light ? 

21. How does he point out the grave of one from whom the bless- 

ing of light was withheld ? 

22. What question may be asked of the wild brooks ? Of the 

channeled rivers ? 

23. How was he protected from walking over the brink of preci- 

pices ? 

24. How extensive and how minute was his knowledge of flowers ? 

25. How far did he extend his knowledge ? 

26. How did his countenance show intelligence ? 

27. What was the nature of his discourse ? 



CHAPTER SIX. 
Descriptive and Narrative. 

A BATTLE OF ANTS. 
HENRY DAVID THOREAU. 

i. Describe the contestants in the battle. 

2. What did Thoreau soon learn with reference to the extent of 

the battle ? 

3. Which kind of warriors were the larger, — the black, or the 

red? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND, 5f>7 

4. How numerous were the warlike hosts ? 

5. What was the state of the battle when the author first came 

upon the scene ? 

6. How did the fighting of the ant legions compare with that of 

human soldiers ? 

7. Describe the struggle between two of the combatants. 

8. What did their battle-cry seem to be ? 

9. What re-enforcement did one of them receive ? 

10. Describe the manner in which the third ant entered into the 

contest. 

11. What means did Thoreau take for watching the issue ? 

12. What did he then discover, by the aid of the microscope ? 

13. How long did the struggle last ? 

14. How did it end ? 

15. What was the fate of the victor ? 

16. Was the cause of the war ever known, or the final result of it ? 

17. What likeness does the writer incidentally suggest between 

this war and those waged among the nations of the earth ? 

THE THREE CHILDREN AT PLAY. 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 

i. Describe the little town. 

2. What rose behind the tall-towered mill ? 

3. Tell about the hazel wood. 

4. Who, among others, played on this beach a hundred years 

ago ? 

5. Among what did they play ? 

6. How does the description of their play suggest the experi- 

ences of human life ? 

ARDEN ON THE ISLAND. 

TENNYSON. 

i. Notice how much is told in the first four lines, and how beau- 
tifully. 

2. What advantages did the island afford ? 

3. Describe the home which the three men made for themselves. 



568 SELECTIONS. 

4. How is their life there tersely described ? 

5. What was the fate of the youngest ? 

6. How did Enoch's other companion perish ? 

7. What did Enoch read in the death of his fellows ? 

8. What beautiful sights greeted him day by day ? 

9. What more precious sight was denied him ? 

10. What did he never hear ? 

11. What did he hear instead ? 

12. Describe his continual watchings for a sail. 

13. What visions, born of memory, haunted him ? 

14. What did he fancy that he heard at one time ? 

15. As the seasons came and went, what hope still survived ? 

16. Describe his rescue. 

FUNERAL OF A BELOVED TEACHER. 
HANNAH MORE. 

i. How did the poor people of the mines try to show their 
affection for the teacher who had worn out her life among 
them ? 

2. Describe the scene before the house. 

3. Give an account of the procession. 

4. How was the minister affected when he came to the services ? 

5. What tribute did he pay to the memory of the dead ? 

6. Describe the scene at the grave. 

THE PANTHER. 
JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 

i. Describe the course followed by the two girls in their stroll. 

2. What caused them to plunge more deeply into the forest ? 

3. On what did their conversation turn ? 

4. Where did their walk lead them, and what sights and sounds 

did they enjoy ? 

5. By what were they suddenly startled ? 

6. W r hy did they follow the sounds ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 569 

7. What was the first intimation of their danger ? 

8. Relate the dog's history. 

9. How did he now behave ? 

10. What did he do when his mistress tried to quiet him ? 

11. How did the ladies become aware of the dangers that threat- 

ened them ? 

DEATH SCENE OF LITTLE EVA. 
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 

1. Tell how the life of Eva was fading out. 

2. How was her father affected by what .he saw ? 

3. How does Mrs. Stowe describe his feelings ? 

4. How did Eva appear during the last afternoon of her life ? 

5. How did she occupy herself ? 

6. What did St. Clare say to Miss Ophelia, as he kissed his little 

daughter good night ? 

7. Tell what happened at midnight. 

8. What was the prompt action of Miss Ophelia ? 

9. What did St. Clare see that made him speechless ? 

10. What kind of look was on Eva's face ? 

11. Describe the commotion among the servants. 

12. What did Eva do when her father called her by name ? 

13. To whom did the master turn for comfort in this moment of 

agony ? 

14. What were the dying child's last words ? 



LITTLE NELL. 
CHARLES DICKENS. 

i. As little Nell wandered alone through the empty old church, 
how did everything seem ? 

2. What tokens of age and decay were all about her ? 

3. What united to make one common monument of ruin ? 

4. What found one common level here ? 

5. What had one part of the edifice been ? 

6. What were to be seen there ? 



570 SELECTIONS. 

7. What did they serve to keep in memory ? 

8. What were the strange child's feelings, as she sat among 

these stark figures, surrounded by the implements of 
old wars ? 

9. What did she do ? 

10. What were some of her thoughts ? 

11. Describe the ascent of the tower. 

12. What sights met her eyes when she had reached the top of 

the turret ? 

13. What did this change of scene seem like ? 

14. After she had left the church, how did the sounds and sights 

of the school affect her ? 

15. Where was she found after dark that night ? 

THE SILENT SLEEPER. 
DICKENS. 

1. What did little Nell seem, as she lay dead upon her bed ? 

2. How was her couch decorated ? 

3. What had been her request concerning this ? 

4. How does the writer compare the child and her bird ? 

5. What change had taken place in the appearance of the child ? 

6. Through what scenes had that face and that form passed ? 

7. Describe the actions and looks of the old man whose mind 

had been dazed with suffering. 

8. What earthly scenes could know her no more ? 

MYSTERY OF LIFE. 
JOHN RUSKIN. 

i. How did the author obtain his influence in earlier life ? 

2. To what must be due the influence which he now desires to 

retain ? 

3. What have most people felt at some time in life ? 

4. By what have they been startled ? 

5. What is it that we cannot truly perceive, even at such times ? 

6. What are we least of all able to understand ? 

7. What will one day be said of both the good and the evil ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 571 

8. Between what two classes, however, will there be found an 

infinite separation ? 

9. Concerning what did the author have a dream ? 

ro. How does he describe those who attended a party ? 

n. What is said of the house, and especially of the surround- 
ings ? 

12. How was the happiness of the party disturbed ? 

13. How were these difficulties finally settled ? 

14. What did they all have to do at last ? 

15. What opportunities for happiness did those children have 

who remained in the house ? 

16. What did some of the most practical of the children covet for 

their own ? 

17. How were the most of the children soon occupied ? 

18. What was finally declared by those who thought themselves 

the most sensible ones in the company ? 

19. In what did their covetousness end ? 

20. What made it seem the more strange that they should be so 

eager to obtain these nail-heads ? 

21. What did they begin to say to one another ? 

22. When the noise of their contentions had roused the author 

from his dreams, what reflections passed through his 
mind ? 

FROM THE "DESERTED VILLAGE." 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

i. With what apostrophe does the author begin this selection ? 

2. What charms of the village does he recall ? 

3. What sweet sounds came up from the village at the close 

of day ? 

4. What great change has come over the place ? 

5. What picture does he draw of a solitary matron seeking to 

obtain a livelihood by gathering watercresses ? 

6. What now marks the spot where the village preacher's modest 

mansion rose ? 

7. Give his beautiful description of the preacher. 

8. What were his ambitions ? 



572 SELECTIONS. 

9, What is said of his hospitality ? 

10. How did he discharge his duties ? 

11. How did he try to elevate his fellow men ? 

12. Describe his offices at the death-bed. 

13. How did he conduct services at church ? 

14. When services were over, how did his parishioners show their 

love for him ? 

15. How did he respond to their attentions ? 

16. To what does the poet compare him ? 

17. Describe the spot where the village master had his noisy school. 

18. Describe the schoolmaster. 

19. How had the children learned to adapt themselves to his 

moods ? 

20. Whenever he was severe, to what was the severity to be 

charged ? 

21. What is said of his wonderful learning ? 

22. What of his powers of argument ? 

23. What has become of the village tavern ? 

24. What marks the spot where the sign-post stood ? 

25. What used to go on in that building which now lies in ruin ? 

26. Describe the room in which these animated talks were held ? 

27. What takes place there no more ? 

28. How does the poet exalt native charms and spontaneous joys ? 

29. How does he express his contempt for midnight masquerades 

and all the freaks of wanton wealth ? 

30. What important duty does he suggest to statesmen and the 

friends of truth ? 

THE "BAS BLANC" (THE WHITE STOCKING). 
HANNAH MORE. 

i. Point out the witty comparisons suggested and the exquisite 
touches of humor found in this apparently serious letter ? 

Remarks. — This unique piece of work was greatly 
admired and highly praised by the eminent critics of the 
day. It shows a rich vein of humor and innocent pleas- 
antry not often possessed by so serious a writer. 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 57; 



A LETTER. 



HANNAH MORE. 



1. How does Miss More describe the pupils of the new school 

she was just opening ? 

2. How many of this banditti had, she enlisted ? 

3. How was the stern clergyman and magistrate affected when 

he saw so many of these rough creatures kneeling around 
the gentle woman who had come to instruct them ? 

4. How does Miss More speak of her hope of doing them any 

good ? 

5. Whom did she meet as she was coming out of church with her 

ragged regiment ? 

6. What unexpected kindness did these musicians perform ? 

THE MENDIP FEAST. 
HANNAH MORE. 

i. Who honored this feast with their presence ? 

2. Who led the procession as they marched to the place where 

the dinner was to be served ? 

3. Describe the remainder of the procession. 

4. What caused the onlookers to shed tears ? 

5. How were the exercises conducted upon the grounds ? 

6. How were they closed ? 

7. How did the procession leave the grounds ? 

8. How did the several schools leave the place where all had at 

first assembled ? 

9. How many people attended the exercises of the day ? 

10. How was good feeling shown among different classes of 

people ? 

11. What did all of them show by their behavior ? 

12. How many poor children had that day enjoyed one good 

meal ? 

13. From what had these good results sprung ? 



574 SELECTIONS. 

CHAPTER SEVEN. 
Public Speeches and Patriotic Sentiment. 

ORATION ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 
GEORGE BANCROFT. 

i. With what statements does the orator introduce his speech ? 

2. What does he say of the mourning which the death of the 

president has called forth ? 

3. Why did it not seem fitting to analyze his character or his 

career at that time ? 

4. What was it hard to believe ? 

5. What change had taken place within a few years in the cir- 

cumstances and fame of Abraham Lincoln ? 

6. What had made him a character toward which all the eyes 

of the world had turned with respect and admiration ? 

7. By what qualities was he fitted for a wise administration ? 

8. What other causes had been at work in the fulfilment of what 

had been accomplished ? 

9. What had been done by the government that immediately 

preceded his administration ? 

10. Contrast the condition in which he found the republic with 

that in which he left it. 

11. Enumerate some of the changes that had been effected. 

12. How was he looked upon by the proud when he first assumed 

his office ? 

13. How had the people of the nation assured him of their confi- 

dence ? 

14. How did he manifest a sweet disposition, and a magnanimity 

almost unparalleled ? 

15. What pertinent questions does the orator ask ? 

16. How does he answer the questions ? 

17. Why does he say that no sentiment of despair should mix 

with the nation's sorrow ? 

18. What does he predict as the result of the president's death by 

the hand of an assassin ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 5 < 

19. At whom was the blow aimed that took the life of the presi- 

dent ? 

20. What was the object of the crime ? 

21. What is said of his grave, his monument, and his enduring 

memory ? 

22. Repeat the orator's benediction. 

23. Why was the president happy in life and happy in death ? 

LINCOLN'S SPEECH IN INDEPENDENCE HALL. 

1. What were the circumstances under which this speech was 

made ? 

2. What does he say of his feelings on the occasion ? 

3. What had been suggested to him ? 

4. What did he say in return ? 

5. What had he often pondered over ? 

6. What question had he often asked himself ? 

7. How does he now answer the inquiry ? 

8. On what basis does he think the country must be saved if 

saved at all ? 

9. Does he think this principle should be given up in any case ? 

10. What did he say about the use of force by the government ? 

11. What apology did he make for his unpremeditated speech ? 

LINCOLN'S GETTYSBURG- SPEECH. 

1. Prepare a careful analysis of this piece. 

2. See if you can point out the elements in this speech which 

have made it so famous throughout the world. 

Remark. — Few speeches have ever been made 
which were so appropriate to the occasion on which they 
were delivered, so brief, and yet so far-reaching in their 
suggestions. 



576 SELECTIONS. 

BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 
J. G. WHITTIER. 

i. Give the poet's description of the town of Frederick and its 
surroundings. 

2. Describe the entrance of the Confederate army. 

3. How did Barbara Frietchie show her patriotism ? 

4. What order was given and executed, as the soldiers came 

before the window where the stars and stripes were 
floating ? 

5. What was the effect of the firing ? 

6. Describe the fearless action of the brave woman. 

7. How did her words affect the leader of the Confederate forces ? 

8. What order did he give ? 

9. How does the poet beautifully describe the floating of the torn 

flag that day ? 

10. With what benediction does he close the poem ? 

11. Write a paraphrase of the poem, and learn by experience how 

difficult it is to produce the impressiveness of the poet, 
when the fire of poetic genius does not warm the heart of 
the writer. 

DIFFICULTIES AND TORMENTS IN TRYING TO CONCEAL 

CRIME. 

DANIEL WEBSTER. 

i. In what simple but effective manner does the great orator 
introduce his subject ? 

2. What does Providence seem to have ordained with reference 

to such things ? 

3. What outward influences and actions are likely to lead to 

the discovery of crime ? 

4. What are some of the feelings that impel the murderer to 

confess his own guilt ? 

5. How is it that the secret which he possesses comes at last 

to possess him ? 

6. How is he finally driven to confession ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 577 

7. Notice the simple language of this wonderful speech, and how 

plain and straightforward the statements are. 

8. Observe how skilfully the parts are arranged, and how 

irresistibly, step by step, the mind is led on till the cul- 
minating point is reached. 

EMANCIPATION 
J. G. WHITTIER. 

1. What announcement does the poet make to the dark, sad 

millions ? 

2. What cheering command does he give them ? 

3. What spirit does he exhort them to manifest ? 

4. What does he advise them to do ? 

NATIONAL PARTIALITY AND PREJUDICE. 
BOLINGBROKE. 

i. What does the writer regard as one of the most epidemical 
follies among the sons of men ? 

2. At what were the Chinese mandarins strangely surprised ? 

3. What can contribute most to prevent us from being tainted 

with this foolish vanity ? 

4. By frequently renewing this prospect to the mind, what change 

will it produce in our judgment and feelings ? 

5. By what example does he illustrate this change ? 

PATRIOTISM; LIBERTY; FREEDOM. 



1. What is said of patriots ? 

2. What does he incur who puts confidence in such declaimers 

for liberty as are themselves the slaves of lust ? 

3. What significant questions does the poet ask ? 

4. What is said of the value of a liberty that is not often sung by 

poets or praised by senators ? 

5. What is this glorious liberty, and whence is it derived ? 

6. How is it bought, and how sealed ? 

37 



578 SELECTIONS. 

7. Who is the real freeman ? 

8. Can such a one be bound by foes ? 

9. With what propriety can he claim as his own all the grand 

and beautiful things in nature or in art ? 

10. How can he have a richer use of other men's possessions than 

they have themselves ? 

11. What may be said of the city of his birth ? 

12. What of the extent and universality of his freedom ? 

13. Is it possible to bind the freedom of a man in whom God 

delights, and in whom he dwells ? 

14. Analyze the selection. 

15. Give a synopsis of each topic. 

16. Note the passages that especially please you. 



CHAPTER EIGHT. 
Reflective. 

THE NIGHT JOURNEY OF A RIVER. 
W. C. BRYANT. 

i. How is the river addressed ? 

2. How does it glide on ? 

3. What is said of its ministry ? 

4. By whom are the elements for a time left in peace ? 

5. Who have, for a while, forgotten their toils ? 

6. What does the poet hear all through the night ? 

7. What is said of the river's everlasting journey ? 

8. Whence does it draw its silvery train ? 

9. What will the dweller by the river's side find at morn, though 

all the waters that upbore his boat the day before have 

slid away over night ? 
to. What good offices has the river been performing during the 

silent hours of the night ? 
[i- What does the poet say of the voice that the river utters 

while all else is still ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 579 

12. What reflection does he express concerning the people who 

dwell near the stream ? 

13. What repeat the story of the endless goings forth of the 

river ? 

14. Who are they who can hear the voice of the river no longer ? 

15. What did the river once do for them ? 

16. What does it do for them no longer ? 

17. What is true of the ever-present memories of these departed 

friends ? 

18. Describe the sorrows of those who mourn for them. 

19. What will be the fate of these memories and these sorrows ? 

20. Describe the passage of the river through the city. 

21. What would be seen if one could look into the room whence 

comes that " dimmer ray," or into the attic window whence 
comes a "steady beam"? 

22. What sad reminders of sorrow stand close beside the haunts 

of revel ? 

23. What does the watchman hear as he paces the wharf ? 

24. What other listeners are there ? 

25. What admonition is given to the river ? 

26. What will the ocean do for the now polluted waters of the 

river ? 

EXTRACT FROM "THE VOYAGE.' 5 
W. IRVING. 

i. What impression was made on the mind of Mr. Irving as he 
saw the coast line of his native land fade away ? 

2. What reflections were awakened in him ? 

3. To whom is a sea voyage full of subjects for meditation ? 

4. What are these subjects ? 

5. In what occupations did the author find delight ? 

6. What were some of the sights that he beheld when looking 

down from the deck of the ship into the sea ? 

7. On such occasions what did his imagination conjure up ? 

8. What were his speculations on beholding a distant sail that 

was gliding along the edge of the ocean ? 



580 SELECTIONS. 

9. What shapeless object was one day seen drifting at a dis- 
tance ? 

10. What was there upon this floating mast that gave it at once 

a human interest ? 

11. What evidence was there that this wreck had drifted about 

for many months ? 

12. Repeat the thoughts that it suggested to. the writer. 

13. Describe the storm that came on at night. 

14. How did the ship behave ? 

15. What were the author's experiences and impressions after he 

had retired to his cabin ? 

16. What was the effect of a fine day and a tranquil sea ? 

17. Describe some of the influences of fine weather and a fair 

wind at sea. 

SOLITARY MUSINGS. 
HANNAH MORE. 

i. How does Miss More assure herself of the constancy of God's 
presence and mercy ? 

2. What prayer does she utter ? 

3. What promises does she make ? 

4. How does she address her wayward heart ? 

5. How is "her state — her acceptance with God — to be tried ? 

6. What questions does she propound to herself ? 

7. Of what may she be assured if she can answer these ques- 

tions affirmatively ? 

SILENCE. 

THOMAS HOOD. 

i. In what places is there a silence where no sound has been, 
and no sound may be ? 

2. Is this like the silence produced by hushed voices or silent 

footsteps ? 

3. What wander far over the idle ground, yet never speak ? 

4. What silence is more impressive than these eternal ones just 

described ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 581 

5. Where is this true silence found, self-conscious and alone ? 

6. Is it absolute silence ? 

7. What, then, makes it so impressive ? — It may be the thought 

of the human voices that have once rung through these soli- 
tudes, but are now hushed. 



THE SEA OF DEATH. 
THOMAS HOOD. 

i- What did the writer imagine that lie saw ? 

2. What followed close upon life, and swallowed her steps like a 

pursuing grave ? 

3. Where were his sad thoughts anchored ? 

4. Describe this passionless sea of the past, as the poet saw it. 

5. What does he say of the spring-faced cherubs that he saw 

sleeping like water-lilies on that motionless deep ? 

6. How did Life regard them ? 

7. What does he say of some of the neighboring brows near 

these lovely faces ? 

8. How did these lips that curled in bitterness and scorn 

bequeath the world's pain to the world again ? 

9. How did they all lie there ? 

10. Who slept with them, and how ? 

11. Note the beauties of this poem, and write a paraphrase of it 

THE FALL OF THE LEAF. 
JOHN RUSKIN. 

1. When may we look up in hope to the mighty monuments 

which the leaves have builded ? 

2. How does Mr. Ruskin describe these monuments ? 

3. In what sense may the trees be regarded as the monuments of 

the leaves ? — They show what the leaves have done. 

4. What may we regard as their last counsel and example ? 



582 SELECTIONS. 



CONTRASTED VIEWS. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



i. What contrasted views may be taken of life ? 

2. What illustration does the poet give ? 

3. How else may this illustration be applied ? 

4. Write a paraphrase of this selection. 



MAN'S INHUMANITY TO MAN. 
WILLIAM COWPER. 

i. How is the heart of man described ? 

2. How is the natural bond of brotherhood severed ? 

3. What crime has been deemed sufficient to make a man the 

lawful prey of those who have the power to enslave him ? 

4. What has been sufficient to make lands abhor each other ? 

5. How are nations made enemies who would otherwise mingle 

into one ? 

6. What is human nature's broadest, foulest blot ? 

7. How does Mercy view the stripes that are sometimes inflicted 

upon the slave ? 

8. Into what questions does the humane heart of the poet burst 

forth ? 

9. How does he express his repugnance to owning slaves him- 

self ? 
[O. What would the poet rather suffer than to oppress his fellow 
men ? 

LETTER ON MORNING. 
DANIEL WEBSTER. 

i. To what does the lady owe the letter ? 

2. What does the writer say of the city and the morning ? 

3. What is the metaphorical sense of the morning ? 

4. What do most inhabitants of cities know about the real morn- 

ing ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 

5. What is their idea of the morning ? 

6. What essential features of it are unknown to them ? 

7. What duties and occupations does it recall to them ? 

8. What is it that they never enjoy, because they have never 

seen it ? 

9. What does David speak of taking to himself ? 

10. What are the wings of the morning ? 

11. What words of Scripture are thus fulfilled ? 

12. What poets have given us so much beautiful imagery, all 

founded on the glory of the morning ? 

13. What are new every morning and fresh every moment ? 

14. Does the writer think that the glories of morning have dete- 

riorated since the creation ? 

15. Why should these glories of the morning seem more miracu- 

lous to us than they did to Adam ? 

16. How does Mr. Webster declare his own appreciation of the 

morning ? 

"ONLY A YEAR." 
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 

i. What changes have a year brought about ? 

2. What were in high activity a year ago ? 

3. What now remain of all that beauty, life, and joy ? 

4. How is nature affected by this change that seems so great 

to us ? 

MIDNIG-HT THOUGHTS AT SEA. 
LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 

i. How does the author describe a night storm at sea ? 

2. What petition does she make ? 

3. How are the ship and its passengers swept on with headlong 

force ? 

4. How does the ship stand the tempest ? 

5. What confidence does the writer manifest ? 

6. How does she speak of home and friends ? 



584 SELECTIONS. 

7. What favor does she ask ? 

8. How does she contemplate the wrecks that lie at the bottom 

of the sea ? 

9. What is her final prayer ? 



FROM THE SERMON ON AUTUMN. 
REV. ARCHIBALD ALISON. 

i. How is evening described ? 

2. Why do the thoughtless fly from this hour ? 

3. Why has it in all ages been loved by the wise ? 

4. What is its first impression ? 

5. How does it do this ? 

6. What follows this first impression ? 

7. What causes this feeling of loneliness ? 

8. For what does this hour seem to have been fitted by him who 

made us ? 

9. What further scene is presented as the evening shades darken 

upon our dwellings ? 

10. What do the heavens thus open up to our eyes ? 

11. While our hearts thus follow up the splendors of the scene, 

what do we for a time forget ? 

12. What are we made to feel ? 

13. Describe the eventide of the year. 

14. What is said in general of this season ? 

15. What are the writer's feelings concerning this scene ? 

16. What changes do we note as we go out into the field ? 

17. What effect does this apparent desolation of nature have upon 

our feelings ? 

18. What suggestions does it afford concerning our own condition ? 

19. How do we rise from such meditations ? 

20. How are we then prepared to look upon life ? 

21. What evidence do we find in ourselves that our hearts have 

been made better, and especially more forgiving ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 585 



THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

i. How does the Flood of Years originate ? 

2. What do its winds bear before them ? 

3. Where, and where alone, does life exist ? 

4. What tosses and foams on the foremost edge of the flood, fill- 

ing the air with mingled noises ? 

5. Who are seen on this foaming crest ? 

6. Enumerate some who are found there ? 

7. What is their almost immediate fate ? 

8. Describe the groups of revelers. 

9. What warlike sounds and scenes are presented ? 

10. What is the fate of the combatants ? 

11. What is said of the funeral train, and of those who gather by 

the bed of the dying ? 

12. What becomes of the loud-voiced orator and the multitude 

who applaud him ? 

13. What view is given of a company kneeling in prayer ? 

14. How are the sculptor, the painter, and the poet brought upon 

the scene ? 

15. When and how are they swept away ? 

16. Portray the scene of the mother and her babe. 

17. Describe that of the two lovers. That of the white-haired 

man. 

18. As the flood grows wider, what effect has it upon the proud 

works of man ? 

19. What is presented to the poet as he turns his eyes back- 

ward ? 

20. What wrecks of former greatness does he behold upon this 

silent ocean of the past ? 

21. Of what can he see dim glimmerings in the depths of the 

sleeping waters ? 

22. What does he see floating upon the surface of the silent sea ? 

23. What does he behold in every one of these ? 

24. What sad thought is suggested to him ? 



586 SELECTIONS. 

25. As he looks before, to where the flood must pass, what does 

he see ? 

26. What changes does he observe in this fair brood of Hope ? 

27. To what hateful forms do they often give place ? 

28. Further on, what seems to bar the way ? 

29. Between what states is this the boundary ? 

30. According to what the wise and good have said, how do the 

years roll on beyond that dismal barrier ? 

31. What do they gather up and bear softly ? 

32. Where does the tide bear them ? 

33. How is the river described, now that it is presenting scenes 

of joy rather than grief ? 

34. Describe some of these scenes ? 

35. Describe the glorious present that shall succeed the grief- 

shadowed one of earthly toil and sorrow. 



CHAPTER NINE. 
Miscellaneous. 

TRAVELS IN PALESTINE. 
BAYARD TAYLOR. 

i. How does the road lead out of Beirut, — the one that runs 
southward along the coast ? 

2. How does the writer describe the morning on which he started 

out on this route ? 

3. Give the author's description of the country which he passed 

through after leaving the mulberry orchards behind ? 

4. What was pointed out on the heights, just before the party 

crossed the little river Damoor ? 

5. What did they cross during the afternoon ? 

6. What place did they reach toward evening ? 

7. Where is the town built ? 

8. How does the writer describe the town ? 

9. How does he describe this first night under his tent pitched 

on the grass ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 587 

io. What peculiar feature had the meadows and the fields of 
barley which they passed the next morning ? 

ii. What indications of ancient power and prosperity were con- 
tinually met with ? 

12. What does he say of the soil and the crops ? 

13. What two charming pictures did he notice during the day ? 

14. What partly accounts for the wealth of ancient Tyre ? 

15. Describe the approach to the ruins of that once proud city. 

16. What kind of picture does the present town present ? 

17. How did the breakers sound ? 

18. What evidences did he see of the fulfilment of Isaiah's 

prophecy ? 

19. How does he describe the sea which they beheld on setting 

out the next morning ? 

20. What did the beating waves seem to be saying ? 

21. Describe the country into which they soon entered. 

22. Describe the Ladder of Tyre, and the mountain spur which 

it ascends. 

THE WORLD WAS MADE WITH A BENEVOLENT DESIGN. 

DR. PALEY. 

i. How does Dr. Paley show that this is rather a happy world 
after all ? 

2. How does he look upon a bee among the flowers in spring ? 

3. Of what is it only a specimen ? 

4. What does he think about the whole winged insect tribe ? 

5. What evidences of happiness does he note among very small 

insects ? 

6. How do the shoals of little fishes appear to him ? 

7. What evidences does he see of their happiness ? 

8. What remarkable appearance has he observed in walking by 

the seaside on a calm evening ? 

9. What did this cloud turn out to be ? 

10. What conclusions does he draw concerning the sum of happi- 

ness enjoyed by such a vast number of creatures ? 

11. What other evidences does he find of the happiness of young 

animals, and especially of children ? 



588 SELECTIONS. 



QUACK ADVERTISEMENTS. 
SIR RICHARD STEELE. 

i. What gives Steele much despair in his design of reforming 
the world ? 

2. What ought every man to know ? 

3. What enables these impostors to go on with their work ? 

4. What aggravates the jest ? 

5. Who are especially successful in deceiving ignorant people, 

both those of quality and those of a lower order ? 

6. How do both classes pay dearly for their foolish admiration ? 

7. What specimen does he give of ridiculous advertisements ? 

8. In what does the art of managing mankind seem to consist ? 

9. What example does he give of the magical influence of an 

occasional foreign word ? 

SECURITY OF OUR BEST BLESSINGS. 
BOLINGBROKE. 

i. How have those things which are of the greatest value to us 
been made secure, so that no one can have the power to 
withhold them from us ? 

2. What are among the most important of these ? 

3. Why can we not find ourselves absolute strangers anywhere ? 

4. What will be the same to us, no matter where we go ? 

THE BEST THING- IN THE WORLD 
E. B. BROWNING. 

i. Paraphrase the poem, and write such inferences as it suggests 
to you. 

ON REVENGE. 

DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 

i. Why will a wise man make haste to forgive ? 

2. What may be said of him who willingly suffers the corrosions 

of hatred, or gives up his days and nights to the gloom 

and malice of stratagem ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND. 589 

3. Resentment is defined in what way ? 

4. Who may be classed among the most miserable of mankind ? 

5. In what sad state are such people ? 

6. Who are they who will not long need persuasives to for- 

giveness ? 

7. What things are unknown to us, which, if they were revealed. 

might greatly change our feelings ? 

8. What mistakes are we liable to make ? 

9. What dangers menace us on every side ? 

10. How may we avoid these dangers ? 

11. How are men withheld from exercising a forgiving spirit : 

12. How may pride be stigmatized ? 

13. Of what does it consist ? 

14. What, and what only, can be great ? 

15. What may be said of those who allow themselves to be 

swayed by others, contrary to their own convictions of 
right and duty ? 

16. What is the utmost excellence to which humanity can arrive ? 

17. What is pride, in Johnson's view, at the best ? 

18. Why is it unwise to trust in the approbation of men ? 

19. What may be said of one who neglects the counsel of God 

to secure the approval of men ? 

20. With what powerful statements does the author conclude his 

argument ? 



FROM THE ESSAY ON HISTORY. 
THOMAS B. MACAULAY. 

i. What has history been said to be ? 

2. What is the difficulty in realizing this ideal ? 

3. What besides a knowledge of facts must a historian possess ? 

4. How must he be able to control his imagination ? 

5. How good a reasoner must he be ? 

6. From what must he abstain ? 

7. Who will not think it strange that history should fail in reach- 

ing a perfect ideal ? 



590 SELECTIONS. 

8. What story did Herodotus have to tell as his history 

approached his own time ? 
g. What were the characteristics of this story ? 
10. Give some illustrations of the wonders which he related. 
ii. What examples of integrity and fortitude were there for him 
to present ? 

12. What was certain to be favorably received ? 

13. How have some critics spoken of history ? 

14. How does the author show that a really successful portrait 

painter must possess some things vastly superior to mere 
mechanical skill ? 

15. How does he describe certain remarkable portraits ? 

16. What example does he cite from history that corresponds to 

such a portrait ? 

17. Does a portrait have to be an exact counterpart of a person, 

in order to be true to its original ? 

18. How does the author illustrate this truth ? 

19. Can history be absolutely true in a literal sense ? 

20. What is true of the most accurate annals ? 

21. Since no history and no picture can present the whole truth, 

what are the best pictures and the best histories ? 

22. What effect may a historian produce who is deficient in the 

art of selection, even though he tells nothing but the truth ? 

23. What apparent paradox does the author present with reference 

to this ? 

24. What further illustrations does the writer draw from the art 

of painting ? 

25. How does the writer conclude his remarks ? 



THEY SAY." 

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 

i. What is said of the power and influence of " they say " ? 

2. Of what is this a consequence ? 

3. What question should every well-meaning man ask himself 

before he yields to this sort of dictation ? 



QUESTIONS ON PART SECOND 591 



FROM THE HISTORY OF HYPATIA. 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

i. How is Hypatia described ? 

2. What were her attainments in science and philosophy ? 

3. What did she add to this knowledge ? 

4. What rendered her the wonder, not only of the populace, but 

of the philosophers as well ? 

5. How wide-spread was her fame ? 

6. What is said of her beauty and virtue ? 

7. What is said of her knowledge, and of her bearing ? 

8. In what do both Christians and heathens have but one voice ? 

9. How did her great reputation prove a misfortune to her " 
10. Describe her martvrdom. 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF AUTHORS. 

A 

Alfred, King 41 

Addison, Joseph 102. 106, 204, 206, 207 

Arnold, Matthew 163, 268, 337 

Audubon, John James 274, 282 

Ames, Rev. Charles Gordon 499 

Adams, Hannah 501 

Adams, Abagail 502 

Allen, James Lane 502 

Alcott, Lousia M 502 

Alison, Rev. Archibald . 459 

B 

Bede 40 

Bacon, Francis 58, 66 

Boccaccio 58 

Barrow, Isaac y8 

Bunyan, John 82 

Baxter, Richard 84 

Burnet, Bishop 99 

Bolingbroke, Lord. . . 102, in, 437, 477 

Burns, Robert 102, 128, 311, 312, 319, 330 

Butler, Bishop 1 02, 112 

Burke, Edmund 1 02, 1 20 

Beattie, James 125 

Byron, Lord 139 

Bryant, William Cullen . 157, 302, 441, 462 

Browning, Mr. and Mrs 163 

33 [593] 



594 ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF AUTHORS. 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett 271, 479 

Bancroft, George 163, 426 

Buckle 163 

Brooks, Charles T .' 238 

Bates, Arlo 491 , 503 

Bulwer 504 

C 

Caedmon 31 

Chaucer, Geoffrey 52, 53, 56, 57 

Caxton 58 

Chillingworth, William 71 

Clarendon, Lord 99 

Cowley 99 

Collins, William 102, 122 

Cowper, Wm. . 102, 127, 278-280, 313, 321, 438, 452 

Coleridge, Samuel T 136 

Clarke, Dr. Adam 151 

Chalmers, Dr. Thomas 152, 254, 255 

Carlyle, Thomas 1 63, 347, 381 

Channing, William Ellery. . . 163, 214 

Cooper, James Fenimore 401, 486 

Carleton, Will 499 

Coffin, Charles C •.-.*. 500 

D 

Dryden, John 93 

Donne 99 

Davenant 99 

Denham 99 

Defoe, Daniel 102, 109, 13 1 

Dickens, Charles , . . 161, 407, 410 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF AUTHORS. 595 

Darwin, Charles 163 

De Quincey, Thomas 163, 363 

Dana, Richard Henry 296, 336 

Dunbar, Paul L 391 

Dwight, J. S 497 

Davis, M. E. M 498 

E 

Edwards, Jonathan 102, 1 1 3 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo 163, 501, 502, 504 

Eliot, George -.163, 270, 356, 503, 504 

F 

Franklin, Benjamin 102, 1 14 

Fielding, Henry 102, 1 3 1 

Froude 163 

Francis, John W 264 

G 

Gower 56 

Gray, Thomas 102, 122 

Goldsmith, Oliver 102, 123, 343, 416, 487 

Gibbon, Edward 102, 117, 492, 494 

Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 501 

Gale, Norman '. . . 501 

H 

Hallam, Henry 62, 146 

Hooker, Sir Richard g8, 67 

Hale, Sir Matthew 76 

Hume 102, 1 16 

Heber, Bishop 142 

Hemans, Mrs 145 



596 ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF AUTHORS. 

Hazlitt, William ....... 146 

Hood, Thomas 154, 342, 449 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell 160, 500 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 161, 306, 369 

Huxley, Thomas Henry 163 

Howitt, William 163, 297 

Hall, Bishop 235 

Hunt, Helen 466 

Howells, William Dean 504 

I 

Irving, Washington 148, 349, 444 

Ingelow, Jean 221 

J 

Johnson, Dr. Samuel 102, 1 1 5, 479 

Judd, Sylvester 340 

Jones, Alonzo T 489 

K 

Keats, John .^ 14 1 

Kingsley, Rev. Charles 163, 295 

L 

Layamon 46 

Langland 49. 5 6 

Locke, John 95. 2I 9 

Longfellow, Henry W 159, 211,376, 503 

Lowell, James Russell 160, 250, 503, 505 

Lamb, Charles 140, 260 

Lewes, George Henry 263, 382 

Lincoln, Abraham 430, 432 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF AUTHORS. 597 

M 

Mandeville, Sir John 54 

Milton, John 75, 88 

Macaulay, Thomas Babington 147, 482 

Milman, Henry Hart 148 

More, Hannah, 1 53. 2 34- 236, 399, 421, 423, 424, 448 

Mill, John Stuart 163 

Miller, Hugh 163 

Martineau, Harriet 163 

N 

Newton, Sir Isaac q8 



O 

Orm ,....,.... 47 

P 

Pope, Alexander 102, 105, 503 

Paley, William 1 50, 358, 473 

Prescott, William H 163 

R 

Robertson, Dr. * William 102, 116, 372, 374 

Richardson, Samuel 1 02, 131 

Ruskin, John 163, 266, 286, 412, 451 

Roberts, C. G. D 501 

Riley, James Whitcomb 501 

S 

Shakespeare, William 57, 58, 65, 505 

Spenser, Edmund 61-63 

Sidney, Sir Philip 61 

Southey, Robert 62, 137, 304 



598 ALPHABETICAL INDEX OE AUTHORS. 

Swift, Jonathan 102, 107 

Steele, Richard 102, 108, 476 

Sterne, Laurence 102, 1 3 1 

Smollet, Tobias George 102, 131 

Scott, Sir Walter 137 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe 140, 275 

Stowe, Harriet Beecher 

162, 305, 338, 359, 367, 404, 457 

Spencer, Herbert 163 

Scott, John Milton 210, 236, 239 

Sigourney, Lydia Huntley 272, 458 

T 

Tyndale 58, 59, 60 

Taylor, Jeremy 73 

Tillotson, John 86, 231 

Thomson, James 102, 121, 326, 327 

Tennyson, Alfred 155, 396 

Thackeray, William Makepeace 163 

Taylor, Bayard 163, 469 

Thaxter, Celia 323, 467 

Thayer, William M . 503 

Thoreau, Henry David 393 

W 

Wycliffe, John 49, 50, 56, 57 

Walton, Izaak 80 

Waller '.-... 99 

Watts, Isaac 102, 1 1 1 

Whitefield, George 102, 118 

Wesley, John ; .102, 118 

Walpole, Horace. ,'. 102, 1 19 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF AUTHORS. 599 

Wordsworth, William 135, 287, 288, 384, 451 

Wolfe, Charles 143 

Wilberforce, William 151, 253 

Whittier, John Greenleaf, 159, 209, 240, 433, 436, 500 

Webster, Daniel 163, 435, 455 

White, Mrs. E. G 240, 247, 249 

Willis, N. P , 243, 258 

Wriitman, Walt „ . 362 

Whiting, Lilian 389, 390 

Y 

Young, Edward 102, 112 



9 40 



'* 



» '*, 



» •*. 



V- -K* 









V*" ••- 


























